


No Promises

by ClementineStarling



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Thorin Lives, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Heartache, M/M, Smut, after chapter 2, in places, please read chapter summaries for further warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:44:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <br/>
  <em>Hobbits usually are polite people and cautious in matters of the heart. They treat each other with respect and rather ask for permission first than accidentally overstep unspoken boundaries. Courtship is an elaborate ritual of exchanging endearments and trading caresses; pleasure is celebrated with the same diligence as applied to preparing a meal: you take it slow and let it simmer, add some fresh ingredients, then stir it again, always careful, never too audacious. Nothing could be more different from the touch of a hobbit than the greediness of a dwarf king...</em>
</p><p>The chapters could perhaps also be standalones, so don't expect much more than behind-the-scenes smut.<br/>Also nearly two years have passed between posting the first two chapters and the follow-ups, so there might be noticeable changes in style and approach (and also characterisation) - it is getting darker and darker - I hope this still works for you.<br/>The AU starts (and ends) with chapter 6.<br/>_</p><p>Attention: This fic contains non-graphic dub/noncon-moments. Also an Thorin/OFC-memory in ch 1. See chapter summaries for more detailed warnings!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was posted on April 8th 2013 and my first take on the Hobbitverse. Naturally a Bagginshield-fic. ;)
> 
> The settings throughout the chapters are as follows:  
> 1\. Carrock | 2. Beorn's House | 3. Mirkwood | 4. Erebor: Acorn | 5. Erebor: Dragon Sickness | 6. Post-Battle / AU
> 
>  **Warning:** A Hobbit-OFC makes a brief appearance in a not so graphic sex scene/memory of Thorin.  
>  In other words: The first chapter has some Thorin/OFC-moments. I read Thorin as bi-sexual. You've been warned. ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many many thanks to **saiphor** for the proofreading! :-*
> 
> I had some slight problems with the time line. In the book, the eagles host the company for a night on the “Great Shelf”, their eyrie and bring the to the Carrock the next morning. Obviously this was left out in the film and I imagine the company to be terribly exhausted once the first film's curtain dropped. So they would not move far before getting some rest; probably they never really made it to the foot of the mountain. Or sth. like that. I hope this works out for you.
> 
> Another thing would be my perception of the differences between dwarves and hobbits in matters of life style, customs, whatever. I know there is this canon idea of dwarves being rather solitary and self-sufficient and if they ever find someone to marry they are supermonogamous. As are, if you come to think about it, hobbits and elves and about every other creature that lives in Middle Earth. This seems to have been some weird notion of Tolkien who obviously could only come up with asexual and (mainly) male characters... and where's the fun in that?!

Midsummer or not, it is freezing cold in the mountains. Every breath of air is steaming from his lips like tiny puffs of pipe smoke: fleeting clouds of silvery mist that dissolve in a matter of moments. He has been staring at them for hours, marvelling at the way they darken the stars and blur the absolute black in between until they’re gone as if they never existed. And for all this time, he has tried not to think. To ban every thought from his mind. He has inhaled the thin air in the vague hope the sharpness of its cold would freeze his brain and stop it from producing those vivid, unsettling pictures. He has imagined he’d suck in all the emptiness of the world, let it live in his mind, while simply slipping into a state of temporary non-existence. Only this one night. Only till morning would dawn and fend off the might of dreams.  
But it has not worked. Inside he still is all tingly and excited and restless. An indescribable happiness is spreading from his guts throughout his body, warming his limbs. It makes him want to scream it into the world and yell it over the tops of the mountains.

He is in love with Thorin Oakenshield.

He knows of course, that Thorin will not reciprocate his feelings. The dwarf is everything he himself is not, noble and strong and brave. A being touched by fate and driven by determination, he is destined to lead his people back to their lost home and install them to their former greatness. He will rule as King under the Moutain, mightiest of dwarves in Middle Earth. Surely there must be a dwarven princess waiting for him somewhere, bespoken to him for many a year, a perfect match in nobility and pride. But Bilbo has already decided that it does not matter. He will love his king all the same and he will not look for gratification but do whatever is asked of him, whatever the risk might be.

Yet however humble and modest Bilbo imagines himself to be in his newly found passion, he greedily collects every impression of Thorin he can get and stores it away in his mental pantry of delicacies. He remembers the flex of his arms, his smell, the deep rumble of his voice.

Only this day he was provided with ample replenishments for his hoard of fantasies as Óin had Thorin undressed for a medical examination. And quite a strange ritual it had been, this examination. In the beginning, Thorin protested at Óin’s request to remove his amour and the tunic he wore below, refusing to allow the dwarven medic a good look at his battered body. But when Balin said something in Khuzdûl, which was echoed by Dwalin and then the whole company, their leader gave in, even if only reluctantly.

Expression blank he stood still like a statue while Kíli and Fíli with nimble fingers opened clasps and unbuckled belts, loosened straps and unravelled laces. Piece for piece they stripped their uncle from his clothing, finally baring skin. And Bilbo’s mouth went dry with longing for Thorin Oakenshield’s body was every bit as magnificent as he had visualised it: It looked like it had been forged from steel or carved from rock, chiselled and defined, limbs hardened by labour, muscles rippling beneath light golden skin. The hair from his beard stretched downwards, thickening over the wide chest into something that reminded remarkably of fur, straight and soft, then thinning again into a delicate trail leading over a well-toned stomach, dipping into another furry isle between sturdy legs. Bilbo did not allow his gaze to linger there, but whenever he closed his eyes afterwards, he could see the cock nestling in dark curls just as well as he remembered the rest of Thorin’s body. The picture was burnt on his retina as a perfect copy and if someone ever were to ask him to give a definition for power and strength, he would cite the dwarf king’s physique, he was certain about that.

Eagerly his eyes followed Óin’s hands checking their leader for broken bones, cuts to be sewn and wounds to be bandaged. Gently the medic’s fingers travelled over the bruised skin and the many white scars and strange symbols etched into it, in brownish-black ink. It was like memorising a map with the tips of your fingers and Bilbo wished he himself could touch Thorin like that, stroking, maybe kissing and licking the pain away.

While he still dwelt on the fantasy, Ori and Bofur stepped forward. Ori was carrying a small bowl filled with carefully warmed water, his hands slightly trembling with nerves. But Bofur, cheerful as usually, lightly touched his wrist in a gesture of reassurance and smiled, before he dipped a piece of cloth into the bowl and gingerly began rubbing the grime and blood and sweat off Thorins shoulders, chest and stomach. He did not in the least appear nervous, on the contrary, he looked like he’d done this before. And when his path led him further and further southwards, he whispered something under his breath, that softened Thorin’s stony expression and made the corners of his mouth twitch with amusement.

Now that he noticed the familiarity between the dwarves and his stomach involuntarily cramped into a tiny little ball of congealed jealousy, Bilbo realised that he’d never given the relationships between the dwarves much thought. They appeared so simple and plainly visible. Somehow they all seemed to be related by blood and then they grouped by age or profession or social status. But he’d never really considered how Thorin might fit in. He’d always been so secluded, brooding and glowering and barking commands, their stern and austere leader. Yet the way Bofur touched him spoke volumes, told tales of intimacy and comfort shared. And it also explained how Bofur had come to join the company; when asked before he had answered with jokes about free beer and stories about seeking his fortune. Now Bilbo’s guts burned with envy at the thought of Bofur worshipping Thorin’s body in more intimate a way. Then he could not help but picturing himself in his place, and his ears turned hot and red like glowing coals.

For the rest of the ceremony he concentrated on breathing and reciting songs and poems and recipes in his head. Nevertheless, disappointment clustered in his belly when Thorin finally was draped in his midnight blue tunic again, concealing his shapely body from the hobbit’s gaze.

The picture however has stayed in Bilbo’s mind, just as he’d expected it to. It is the reason he finds no sleep tonight. All he can think of is Thorin resting not a stone-throw away, only covered in delicate linen and soft furs. And he cannot suppress the urge to lay eyes on him, watch him sleep, watch over his sleep. And so Bilbo slips out from his soft and warm blankets and on light feet, swiftly and silently as only a hobbit can, makes his way past sleeping dwarves to the other side of the camp.

***

An icy breeze sweeps down from the heights, stirring up the embers into one last dance of flames. Thorin’s eyes follow the sparks as they fly away on their brief journey into the night. How brightly they blaze, just before they die. That’s how mortal lives must be reflected in history, he muses, they shine for one moment clear as the stars in the sky, only to expire within the blink of an eye. He has seen men fall like that, sword in hand, greatest in their moment of doom, and he’s always hoped for this to be his fate – to die a warrior’s death that would find its way into the songs and tales of his people, forever to be remembered as were the heroes of old.

And now it happens that in these stories of everlasting glory, his quest to the LonelyMountain will forever be entwined with the deeds of a little hobbit, who in an act of fearless heroism came to his rescue and saved his life from wargs and orcs. However unlikely it had appeared to expect such valour from the frail and benign creature that is Bilbo Baggins, who not even in his wildest dreams would consider himself a warrior, in a moment of need he did not hesitate to risk his skin and thereby silenced all accusations of cowardice.

Thorin still feels ashamed for his harsh attitude towards the halfling. In the very beginning he had not in the slightest liked Gandalf’s idea to employ a hobbit as a burglar. He found the inhabitants of the Shire to be petty-minded people who valued their own comfort above anything else and were careful not to get mixed up in the problems of others. Their lives were ruled by small and prosaic concepts, devoid of honour and passion and loyalty. This particular hobbit appeared to be no exception. As he was neither used to hardship nor physical strain, let alone wielding a weapon, Thorin could not understand why the wizard would insist on taking a person like him on such hazardous a venture. He was bound to be a burden, slowing them down at the least, dragging them down with him at the worst. But in the end he yielded to Tharkûn’s wishes.

The following weeks he half-heartedly tried to lay his doubts to rest, but the further their journey led them, the more the hobbit’s presence began to bother him and while he could not quite put his finger on the reason, his patience grew thinner every day. As his nerves were raw already with his liability for the lives of his companions and the future of his people, he could not afford leniency nor constant concern for the halfling’s well being and it seemed only convenient to blame quite a bit of their problems on the hobbit.

However he appeared to be the only one doing so. Grudgingly he registered that his companions were getting on rather well with the halfling who in fact turned out to be a pleasant fellow once you looked past his fussy side and strange needs – like pocket handkerchiefs. Now, after considerate reflection on the matter, Thorin realises what has bothered him all along: every time he looks at Bilbo, he sees a simple, a peaceful life, unburdened by responsibility and loss, he catches a glimpse of what life might have become, had it not been for been for the dragon.

In this regard Bilbo reminds him of much happier days, when he was a young dwarven prince, barely beyond adolescence, blithe, irresponsible and always up to mischief, just like his nephews are today. He had not seen battle nor death back then, when his grandfather Thrór had still been alive and King under the Mountain.  
To be more precise, Bilbo reminds him of a halfling girl he knew once, in the town of Dale.

Ruby she was called. A pretty girl with lips like rose pedals, as red as her name suggested, and a mane of golden brown locks that were no less unruly than Bilbo’s. He remembers the soft curve of her hips and the rosy tips of her perky little breasts and when he closes his eyes he can hear her laugh, clear and silvery as a spring streamlet in the mountains.

He was drunk on red wine and pipe weed and music that night when for the first time she took his hand.  
„Come with me, my prince", she whispered into his ear and without questions he followed her as she led him into the garden, towards the blooming cherry trees. White they shone in the light of the blue hour and little fingers began to open the fastenings and buckles of his robes and he marvelled at how swift they were and how skilful.

„I must be dreaming…“ he said, his voice barely more than a hum vibrating deep in his throat and he gasped at the way her palms travelled his chest, tracing hard muscle, brushing over sensitive nipples.  
„How beautiful you are, my prince“, she breathed, admiration and lust thick in her voice and as she looked up at him through dark lashes, he could not refrain from returning the compliment. Fair and soft and delicate as she was, so unlike any dwarf, male or female. He kissed her then, his lips hard and demanding against her compliant mouth.

She rode him that night, under the cherry trees, until the sun rose in the east and he fell asleep, utterly spent and profoundly happy.

He relived this moment a lot over the years. There had been other encounters with Ruby, every one a journey into sweetness, but none of them stuck to his memory quite like the first. Decades later, when the nights were long and lonely, he would still think of her on this magic spring morning, bouncing and jiggling above him, a goddess of joy and pleasure. In his fantasies he travelled back to that perfect hour whenever the world was too cold to bear. Just like now as the frost is sneaking up on him, slipping under his furs and blankets and biting into his already battered limbs.

Thorin tries to invoke the familiar warmth by summoning the usual images before his inner eye but it isn’t Ruby he sees, it’s his burglar, and he groans. This does not seem like the best of ideas, but it’s already too late to will away the effect the thought has on him and reluctantly, he delves into the fantasy. His hands – like of their own accord - slip under his tunic and travel over his chest, following the trail of hair, downwards, ever downwards.

***

Bilbo’s path meanders between bedrolls and sleepers; ever so lightly the hobbit treads and no one wakes or even stirs in his sleep. On the far side of the camp, where the ledge snuggles up against the steep face of the mountain, Thorin rests besides the dying fire, its glow barely enough to highlight his features. His eyes are closed, his lips opened in one silent, sensuous moan. All the anger and hardness is gone from his face and if Bilbo weren’t already entranced by the dwarf, he’d fall for him then and there.  
He drinks in the softness of his hair flowing around the shoulders, mingling with the precious furs, and how the last flames bathe his skin in golden light. And then, at last, he registers the movement of Thorin’s hands beneath the blankets and the mental picture of them gliding over his cock in determined, purposeful strokes render his hobbit legs all weak and wobbly. Pointy ears ablaze, he drops to his knees, mesmerised by this unexpected concurrence of imagination and reality.

Bilbo can’t decide whether it’s embarrassment or arousal that warms his blood and heats his body, but despite the searing cold, he is burning and hot and he can’t help but stare, observe the way the strong body arches into the touch of its own hand and how the face convulses into a grimace of pleasure.

Bilbo barely notes his own breath to catch in his throat as the dwarven prince’s breathing becomes more and more ragged and he imagines what might happen under the covers obscuring the view.

He must have made the tiniest of whimpers at the thought, because all of a sudden the spell is broken, Thorin’s eyes fly open and he grasps for Orcrist, lying sheathed at his side, just beneath the furs. Tense and ready for a fight the dwarf is even more striking than before and Bilbo wishes he could will his legs to carry him away and escape the awkward situation, but he is rooted to the spot. All he feels able to move are his eyes and abashedly he lowers his gaze, so he cannot see how Thorin’s expression changes from alarm to mild bewilderment to an amused smirk.

„Master Baggins,“ he says, his voice as deep as the caverns of Khazad-dûm, the amusement in it hardly more noticeable than a trickle of water is under gravel. „is it customary in the Shire to seek an audience in the dead of night?“

„Sorry. I did not mean… I don’t…“ the hobbit stammers, his eyes still locked to the ground.

„Among dwarves such late a visit might suggest motivations most hobbits would not deem appropriate“, Thorin says. „Or at least so I’ve been told.“

Bilbo looks up, surprised at the unsuspected turn the situation seems to take.  
„What do you mean?“ he asks. Thorin’s expression is solemn and mild. It’s Bilbo’s favourite as it’s rare as precious stones; until now he’s only seen it when the dwarf talks about much happier days.

„Come here.“ Thorin pats what in a proper bed would be its edge. „I don’t want to wake my men with tales of hobbit morals when at last they’ve found some rest.“

Bilbo shuffles closer, a little confounded by this unexpected invitation, but Thorin’s gaze seems affectionate enough. Still, his fingers tremble with nerves, when he sits on the designated spot, so close to the dwarf, he can smell the herbs of the salves and ointments Bofur applied, but also Thorin’s very own scent, familiar and strange at the same time. And the hobbit feels faint with anxiety and longing.

Thorin however is unperturbed as ever and his voice is calm when he begins to talk.  
„Once I knew a maid by the name of Ruby. I was a very young dwarf back then and my grandfather Thrór still ruled over Erebor. Ruby was a lovely creature, literate and prudent and well-travelled, despite being hardly older than myself at the time. Her father had been a halfling merchant from Bree who’d taken her with him on his ventures; after his untimely death she came to live in Dale, at the foot of the lonely mountain. Balín who was my teacher engaged her to tutor me in the ways of the other races and so she explained to me how the elves preferred spiritual pleasures above the joys of the flesh and how hobbits court each other with patience and poetry… Unlike dwarves they are neither blunt nor purposeful when it comes to finding someone to share their bed with but gentle and acquiescent. Enjoying the company of someone without pursuing intentions of partnership and marriage is frowned upon, Ruby told me, whereas among my people we are much more practical in these matters. We take what we want without qualms or regrets and we do not promise more than the pleasure of the act.“

Bilbo does not know where to look or what to say, when Thorin continues. „So if a dwarf came to me in the small hours of the night, I’d regard it as an offer to take him to my bed. But what do I make of the visit of a hobbit?“

The silence that follows is born half of amusement, half of bashfulness. While Thorin waits for an answer, Bilbo wishes for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. He’d rather battle a goblin than reveal his feelings, which seem so soppy after this speech of sober pragmatism.

„I don’t think I’ve thought about it, really“, Bilbo answers evasively, failing to own up to his fantasies.

„That’s a pity“, Thorin says, his voice even huskier than usual. „Because it’s exactly what I thought about when you were so impolitely interrupting me before.“ His hand lifts to stroke a stray strand from the hobbit’s forehead and tug it carefully behind a pointy ear into which he whispers: „She had the same unruly hair as you. Same curls, same colour. Silky to the touch. It makes you want to bury your hands in it and lose yourself in the softness...“

Although it’s only words and the strong fingers have not lingered, Bilbo can’t refrain from gasping. „I did not mean to say…“ He cannot bring himself to say it loud, to beg to be touched again. Instead he stares at his hands, folded nervously in his lap.  
After a moment of silence, he looks up only to realise that Thorin is observing him closely, gaze unfaltering and with an expression that he’s never seen before, so full of… gentleness.

„I’ve seen the fierce bravery you so successfully hide from everyone including yourself, Bilbo Baggins. I’ve witnessed your act of courage that can not be ascribed to a soldier’s sense of duty, to the loyalty of a kinsman or the heroism of a warrior. I’ve known this kind of devotion and I recognise its source. So, be bold and admit to your feelings. There is no shame in it.“

„I’m not… I’ve never…“ Bilbo says, avoiding Thorin’s eyes.  
The situation is getting more awkward by the minute and he feels trapped by his own insecurity. But isn’t this what he’s dreamt about all along? The hobbit drags in a lungful of the freezing air, concentrating on the burning sensation to bring him back to his senses. Then he scrambles up all the courage he can find in his little heart.  
„Can’t we just pretend I’m a dwarf?“ he says. And at Thorin’s low chuckle he adds. „I mean, I won’t insist on patience, poetry or partnership. You can be as purposeful as you like. I don’t object to…“

„…the simple pleasure of the act?“ Thorin completes the sentence for him and there’s promise in his voice that makes Bilbo’s spine prickle. Thorin’s hand finds its way back into the hobbit’s locks and he drags him closer, into a kiss.

It’s nothing like Bilbo imagined it to be after this lengthy overture of politeness and, well, patience on Thorin’s side. His old, comfortable hobbit self - call it his Baggins side if you like - shrinks back from the sheer force of the dwarf’s lips on his, the violence of the tongue demanding entrance into his mouth. There is no poetry in this, only raw need and he remembers the warning hidden in Thorin’s words and also the fact, that he’d interrupted the dwarf in pleasuring himself at a, say, pretty advanced stage. He is not sure if he can take this assault of dwarven lust and he shudders at the way, strong fingers prise open his clothing, merciless groping for naked skin, fingertips rough on his flesh, nearly bruising. But then Thorin hums, deep in his throat. It’s a feral sound that goes straight to Bilbo’s cock, caressing its length in an imaginary stroke. The suppressed desire of months and years begins to pool in his belly, a heat that once it’s awakened makes him compliant to Thorin’s passionate touch.

He moans at the scratch of blunt fingernails over his chest with shamelessness he’d not thought possible. Moments before he’d have blushed furiously at the idea alone, but now he’s being claimed by a dwarf who is so absolutely and unquestionably in charge of him, he allows himself to get lost in sensations invoked by this mighty and wonderful creature; he’s submitting to him, body and soul.

His hands slip under Thorin’s tunic as if on their own accord and tentatively they wander over skin and explore the landscape of muscles beneath. Never before has he felt anything like it – if it weren’t for the barely scabbed wounds and the patches of body hair, he’d swear to be touching warm and perfectly smooth stone. The term „dwarf“ belies the essence of this being - there is nothing small in the man and Bilbo is as awe-stricken as he is enthralled with this powerful physique that is so unlike his own and he swears not to use the words of the Common Speech anymore but to call him „khuzd“ as he’d name himself.

The dwarf has stopped kissing him and now is leaning into Bilbo’s palms, clearly enjoying the gentleness of the touch, yet looking quizzically at the halfling.  
„Forgive me“, he says. „Ruby has taught me the softness of the hobbits and she has taught me well, but it was a long time ago and I forgot about your ways.“  
„It’s alright“, Bilbo mumbles. „I told you to treat me like a dwarf. And you did. Besides, we hobbits are stronger than we look. I won’t break.“

And now it’s his turn to tangle his fingers into long, raven hair and pull Thorin into a kiss. It’s a much sweeter kiss, all gentle touching of mouths and dancing of tongues, no teeth, only soft nipping of lips. Thorin plays along for a while, but when Bilbo’s hand finds his cock, which is not a bit less hard than the rest of his body, the dwarf is done with loving kisses. A guttural sound escapes his throat, more of a deep, hungry growl than a gasp or a moan. His lips trace the hobbit’s beardless jaw and then settle at his neck, biting and sucking. Almost cruelly his fingers dig into supple hobbit flesh, as Bilbo wraps his hand around the thick shaft and lets it glide over the silky skin.

Thorin thrusts up into his grasp, impatient for more friction, while his own hand tears its way through the hobbit’s undergarments, freeing his throbbing arousal from its restraints and then, mirroring Bilbo’s actions, closes calloused fingers around his cock. His touch is much more tender than the hobbit expected, yet it applies just the right amount of pressure on his swollen flesh and involuntarily he whimpers, high and barely audible. But Thorin has heard this sound of pleasure, as they’re so close now, they could not decide where the one ends and the other begins, and Bilbo feels how the dwarven cock jumps with excitement in his little hand. He moans again, louder this time and with a calculated amount of lewdness put into it, and again he is rewarded by a twitch of the hard shaft under his palm.

Thorin’s mouth curls into a pleased smirk at the base of the hobbit’s delicate neck and he lets his free hand travel possessively over the heated, hairless skin of the halfling’s chest. A rather forceful stroke of the cock in his hand combined with a pinch of a perky nipple earns him another one of those wanton whimpers that goes straight to his own groin.

„If you’re not quiet, Master Burglar, I’ll have to spread you open and fuck you, hard and dry and merciless", he breathes into the hobbit’s ear. An empty threat. He knows, he can’t keep this up for long, it’s been a while and his body is desperate for release. And Bilbo too is already trembling under his hands, not with cold or nerves this time, but with arousal, yet he is certain, that soon he will have another chance to make him pant and scream.

The hobbit however buries his head in the crook of Thorin’s brawny neck, gasping and writhing in unison with the rhythm of their hands moving on their cocks. Thorin holds him steady, flush against his chest, his thumb rubbing circles over the smooth and slick head of Bilbo’s prick and the hobbit follows his example. Thorin curses under his breath, swearwords in Khuzdûl that would even make Dwalin blush, and he hisses angrily when Bilbo’s hand around his cock suddenly falters and slackens.

„Don’t stop, hobbit!“ he growls but Bilbo has already let go, his body convulsing with orgasmic shocks and his seed spilling hot over the dwarven fingers, before he goes limp and slumps against Thorin’s massive frame.

„Sorry", he mumbles drowsily and adds. „Give me a moment…“

Thorin grips the hobbit’s shoulders, hard and shakes him, not too gently. „Don’t you dare fall asleep now.“

His voice is as hard and impatient as the erection throbbing between his legs. But his anger is not called for, as the halfling already lowers his head obediently, crouching down over his lap. Tongue lapping the tip with relish before eager lips close around his shaft, swallowing him up like a lollipop from Sandyman’s sweet shop.

Now it’s the dwarf’s turn to look for support, as he feels to be melting under Bilbo’s mouth. He leans back on his hands, steadying himself and gazes down in wonder at the hobbit’s curly head bobbing up and down, in a steady, tantalising rhythm that feels good, oh so good. He watches how his thick cock stretches the hobbit’s lips, how it disappears into the delicious tightness of the mouth, hot and wet. Then Bilbo’s fingers wrap around its base and add the movement of his hands to the rhythm of his sucking. Thorin’s lust coiling in the pit of his stomach like liquid gold is beginning to boil and to seethe and his limbs start to tremble with the imminence of his release, but still the hobbit sucks and kisses his cock and it’s not until he moans in pleasure again, that Thorin’s body tenses. His muscles tighten and his hips jerk and then the little death is upon him.

Time seems to stop as he rides the wave that connects this moment of bliss to self-dissolution and the eternal emptiness beyond, he lets himself be carried away like a spark on the wind as his need flares up one last time, his body stiffening to solid rock, and then he comes, fierce and salty, into the compliant hobbit mouth, that greedily licks and swallows, that would devour him whole if it could and at this point, he’d gladly allow it.

As the convulsions finally ebb and fade, his strong body grows heavy like stone, tiredness pressing down with leaden weight. Already half asleep he drags the unresisting hobbit into his arms and pulls him close under the cosy furs, a large hand spreading possessively over soft flesh. He nuzzles his nose into the silk of his locks, deeply inhaling his scent, before at last he drifts off to sleep.

Only a few paces away, Dwalin leans back comfortably against a large rock, a satisfied smile curling his lips, and far to the East, a new day is dawning over the Lonely Mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some deliberations on dwarves and the canon:  
> (continuation of the notes at the beginning)
> 
> While I buy the somewhat ethereal behaviour of elves and the uptightness of hobbits, dwarves seem to be very physical beings. They may not be into elaborate cooking and hobbitish comfort but they seem to love to drink and eat and party. It would only be logical to add that they also enjoy fighting (to a degree) and fucking. In my head they have quite a different set of values than other 'races' of Middle Earth.
> 
> For example: a gentlehobbit like Bilbo would never dream of physical labour whereas not even a dwarven prince is afraid of getting his hands dirty. Dwarves appear as sth as the working class of ME, miners and smiths and manufacturers of all kinds of stuff, while hobbits are represented as bourgeois and elves as some kind of nobility. (Let's see what will happen once the humans get into the story.) 
> 
> For me this results in dwarves having a less flowery approach to sex than a hobbit would choose. It's focussed on need and relief and desire and not so much about tender feelings and poetry and courtship. So while Thorin certainly wants Bilbo, there is no way he *loves* him like the hobbit loves the dwarf. This eventually (in my head) will cause their relation to drift more and more into a D/s-direction. I'm not too sure if I really like that since it adds to the already pretty pronounced butch/femme-dichotomy, but fantasies tend to have a will of their own...


	2. Still No Promises...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was posted on April 8th 2013.
> 
> Beorn's house:  
> After their first encounter on the edge of sleep and dreams, Bilbo is falling for the dwarven prince without really meaning to.  
> Thorin on the other hand discovers dwarfish greediness in his desire for the hobbit. 
> 
> Less contemplation, more smut, no more OFCs sneaking in. Relationship develops into D/s-direction. It's still pretty much vanilla but if you're not comfortable with such takes, please do not read.
> 
> EDIT January 2014: Now that I saw The Desolation Of Smaug, I realised that the liberties that I took when describing Beorn's house - which in The Hobbit (novel) has also two large wings apart from the Great Hall - do not work with the depiction in the film, where the house seems to be a mere cottage. I thought about re-writing my scenes but for this story Thorin needs his private quarters; I cannot change it into 'movieverse', sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave my friend saiphor another story of mine ([Do you love me?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/728515) | Robin Hood-verse) for proofreading, when I was halfway through with this chapter. She said the D/s-approach of DYLM was much more to her liking so I decided on accommodating her fantasies and tried to emphasise the underlying currents of dominance and submission in my Bilbo/Thorin-version. I don't know if it really got kinkier than it would have already been. It still seems pretty tame to me. But who knows what will happen next... or if anything will happen at all. :)

Bilbo is woken rather rudely the following morning, when a dwarf, it is Bombur for all it matters, tugs at the sleeping mat he is still lying on. „Get up, Master Burglar,“ he trumpets cheerfully. „And be quick about it. We’re breaking camp.“

Confused and startled the hobbit scrambles to his feet, not realising that his clothing is still a mess from the events of the night before until he stands upright, flashing naked skin into all directions. He blushes furiously from his furry toes to the tips of his pointy ears, but no one seems to care much; only Kíli pauses to nudge Fíli in the ribs and Bofur winks at him conspiratorially. Hastily the hobbit pulls up his trousers and rebuttons his shirt and waistcoat. „Here“, Dwalin says gruffly, handing him what little possessions he has left, neatly packed, and with a friendly pat on his shoulder he shuffles off while Bilbo looks after him in amazement.

Thorin of course, is already up and about, observing the actions of his company with the usual bearing of importance. When their eyes meet, he bows his head in recognition though, and there is a softness in his gaze that makes Bilbo’s pulse quicken and his stomach flutter. But then the dwarf redirects his attentions to the matters at hand and disappointment crashes down on the halfling.

No, no, no! Bilbo thinks, furious at himself. No poetry, no promises. That was the deal. What has he expected? Breakfast for two, while holding hands and exchanging kisses? And angrily he stamps off, following the nearest dwarf in his tracks.

 

„Not a good morning, Bilbo?“ Gandalf asks, catching up easily with the hobbit, who has tried to avoid any conversation from the moment they left their camp. Bilbo snorts indignantly at the familiar mixture of jeer and amusement in the wizard’s tone but then decides that satisfying his curiosity is more pressing than keeping up an air of huffiness.

„Gandalf,“ he says. „I recently came to wonder what might actually be true of the things, I’ve heart about dwarves. There were so many rumours around that appear so unlikely, now that I’ve met some myself…“

Gandalf only gives a low chuckle. „Yes, they are quite a merry folk, indeed… much more so than you’d give them credit for.“ 

„Well…“ Bilbo says evasively. „That’s how you could call it… it’s only. People in the Shire thought them to be rather earnest and loyal and…“ he rummages for the right word. „Faithful.“

„Faithful?“ Gandalf repeats, his bushy eyebrow arched.

„You know, monogamous“, Bilbo says, turning red.

„Ah!" the wizard sighs. „Yes. Yes they are. At least when they married.“ His eyes glitter with mischief and warmth. „I don’t suppose Gloín has made approaches to you?“

„No, of course not", the hobbit answers in genuine surprise and adds: „It’s more of an… erm… academic question.“

„I see“, Gandalf says. „Purely academically, how can I explain… Dwarves regard marriage as a commitment that’s not necessarily one of love and passion as you would understand it. Which, of course, need not mean that it is not. Gloín for example seems to be very taken with his wife. But, you see, dwarves are extremely proud of their heritage so they elect carefully whom to share their blood with. Taking a wife – or a husband – means to be bound by honour to this dwarf, to beget children, to raise them, to perpetuate a line. Having a family is considered a great treasure, perhaps the greatest of all and every dwarf would defend it jealously against trespassers and thieves.“

He briefly looks at Bilbo, who nods his understanding. „It’s said to be very few women among dwarves – is that the reason only Gloín is married? Surely such noble men like Balin or Dwalin would not have any trouble finding a suitable wife?“

Again, a warm gleam of affection and amusement in Gandalf’s eyes before he answers:

„Balin is married to his books and Dwalin, well, probably to Ukhlat and Umraz.“ The wizard laughs at the idea. „However, their behaviour is not uncommon. Many a dwarf, female or male alike, does not feel up to the challenge a marriage would present. They choose their craft over a partnership and they seek their pleasure in fleeting relations instead of settling down. It’s a way that is as old as the folk of Durin, but in earlier times it was considered an exception while now it’s the rule. These days, many dwarves pick freedom above the duties of family life. Mostly they cite their exile as the reason, the shame of having no proper home. That’s also why the sons of Thorin’s sister Dís are second in line to the throne as Thorin has not sired children nor did he in the least seem tempted to do so. Which does not mean, of course, that he is shy of entertaining relations of an amorous nature.“

The wizard darts a knowing glance at the hobbit trotting beside him. „I know in the ears of a hobbit, such customs must sound strange and peculiar. But I assure you, dwarves usually are quite pragmatic in this respect and most of the time, they shape their morals upon what works best.“

And while Bilbo still tries to puzzle together the pieces of information, Gandalf strides out in long paces, drawing level with the next person in line to start a new conversation.

And so hours pass and they walk, and the sun rises to its peek and descends again, and Bilbo has quite a bit of time to think about the wizard’s words till late in the afternoon they reach their destination and his musings are diverted by the wonders of Beorn’s house.

 ***

All day long, Thorin has paid no heed to his existence. To be fair he’s taken no more notice of Ori or Bombur either, but they’re not exactly whom Bilbo wants to be compared to and despite all resolutions, jealousy and disappointment are again simmering in the pit of his stomach. But at last, when it’s late and the dwarves are drunk on the skin-changer’s wine and ale and many a song has been sung and the candles are already burning low, Thorin’s gaze finds its way to the place where the hobbit sits. It feels as if he can see right through him, to the very bottom of his soul, and what he discovers there makes his hard mouth curl into a lewd smile. Unconsciously, his tongue darts out, pink tip wetting his lips in what seems like anticipation of things to come.

Bilbo forgets to breathe for a moment as he remembers a threat uttered the night before in a moment of blind passion which might also be a promise. „If you’re not quiet, Master Burglar, I’ll have to spread you open and fuck you, hard and dry and merciless.“

His large eyes darken at the thought and his mouth slightly opens in an expression of sheer astonishment. He does not realise how lovely he looks with his tousled hobbit hair and the pointy ears peeping out from the locks, ready to be sucked and bitten and kissed. The collar of his shirt is not bound by a cravat but gapes open where it misses a button or two, revealing tender skin on which purplish bruises bloom. Not too silently they bear testimony to the claim the dwarf has laid on him.

Thorin’s blood rushes towards his cock at the picture, all of it as it seems, judging by the urgency of the throbbing between his legs, leaving his head empty and his body weak with lust. No matter how you look at it, the halfling always appears to present some kind of liability, he thinks, but he does not care as his mind is already clouded with arousal. Abruptly he stands and the other dwarves tumble to their feet in a gesture of respect.

„I retire for the night", he announces, never breaking eye contact with the hobbit. „May Mahal watch over your sleep and bestow upon you the sweetest of dreams.“

His rather formal words are echoed by the dwarves as Thorin strides around the table; not entirely unexpectedly he pauses beside the hobbit, and a heavy hand falls on Bilbo’s shoulder. „A word, Master Baggins, if you would be so kind.“

Stunned the hobbit follows the dwarven prince out of the room into the rather dim corridor and suddenly finds himself pinned against the wall by Thorin’s massive frame, his large fingers roaming his body with the possessiveness of an owner. „Tonight I want to hear you scream, little hobbit.“ He rasps into his ear, the breath searing hot against the sensitive shell. Then he takes a step backwards and Bilbo yelps in surprise at the abrupt loss of contact, nearly losing his footing. Thorin catches his arm and steadies him with an ease that betrays his impressive strength. „Only if you’re willing to grant me this wish, that is“, Thorin adds in a kind of mock politeness that belies the way he stares at the hobbit, raw lust flashing in his eyes.

He does not have to ask, Bilbo thinks, he could simply take me. And maybe he will, if I deny him his request. He knows of course, that Thorin follows a code of honour that would not allow such violation of a will. If he refused him, he’d back off. But the thought alone, the fantasy of being taken without his consent and thereby beyond his control, makes him so hard, he can barely think anymore. 

Thorin gazes at the hobbit, marvelling at the way he is already flushed with arousal and tiny whimpers are escaping his throat. He is so sensual a creature, it is most endearing. „Is that a yes?“ he asks, deliberately lowering his voice …

The deep rumble stirs the butterflies in his stomach into an excited flutter and Bilbo only nods, biting his lip. He’s always considered himself to be fairly articulate but for some strange reason Thorin’s presence never fails to make him lose his tongue or even worse, turns him into a babbling idiot. The dwarf however does not seem in the least perturbed or bewildered by Bilbo’s behaviour. Probably he is accustomed to inspiring awe in small folk like him. With the air of someone used to order and command, Thorin growls. „Follow me then.“ and sets out for his quarters at a pace, the hobbit finds difficult to keep up with. A little nervous he scuttles after the dwarf, admiring the grandeur of his vigorous strides. He’d probably walk into a battle in the same manner, Bilbo thinks and he remembers the way, Thorin confronted Azog, sword drawn and hair flying, like the hero of an old tale. Perhaps even more staggering than any product of his fantasy could be. And this man is about to take him into his bed - he still can’t believe that it isn’t just a fanciful notion he has dreamt up in a mind feverish with carnal desires.

It’s not until the door of Thorin’s sleeping quarters snaps shut behind them, that Bilbo comes to again. Like everything in Beorn’s house the room and its furniture is far too big for a hobbit to feel quite comfortable. On dwarves like Thorin the sheer size of the interior does not seem to have the same effect though. In comparison to his heavy build and compact figure everything is ridiculously large and somewhat flimsy, just as if it’s not really real. There can be nothing in the world that’s more solid than this warrior’s body, Bilbo decides, as he studies Thorin’s poise, the way he leans casually against the wooden frame of the door, arms loosely crossed in front of his broad chest, expression mildly amused, completely at ease with himself. Yet not for a second you’d mistake his relaxed state for weakness. On the contrary, the dwarf is as alert and dangerous as he could ever be and there’s this hungry glint in his eyes that makes Bilbo’s mouth all dry. 

„Take off your clothes“, Thorin demands. „I want to see you.“

Bilbo swallows. He’s not sure if he likes the inquiring gaze on his body which - as he knows very well - does not at all compare to dwarfish perfection, dainty as it is in places and a little chubby around the middle. But he sees not how he could deny the request and so he obeys, shedding his jacket and waistcoat and unbuttoning his shirt.

Thorin’s eyes follow the deft hobbit fingers with mounting interest. Since he had touched him, he has wondered quite a bit about how Bilbo might actually look under the remains of his once cultivated clothes and now that his curiosity is satisfied, he’s adding pictures to the mental map he has sketched the night before.

With pride he notices, that he has already marked him quite thoroughly: The halfling’s delicate neck is adorned by a chain of love bites, trailing down over shoulders and collarbones. His hairless chest bears the angry red traces of fingernails and at one of his supple flanks the cruel grip of his hand is still visible. At the sight a tug of longing travels down to Thorin’s groin. He will touch him just there, later, when he claims the hobbit for real. 

Apart from the evidence of pleasure and some bruises obviously deriving from the battle against the orcs, there are no scars or wounds or anything else that might mar the smoothness of Bilbo’s skin. Even in his slight roundness that attests to a life of leisure, the hobbit is rather graceful, small boned and delicious looking. Thorin catches himself thinking of him as a creature of indulgence and pleasure, perhaps even something like a luxurious object, a rare gem or exquisite piece of jewellery. He imagines him to be decorated with gold and silver and precious stones, spread-eagled on his hoard, completely at his disposal, and his cock throbs with approval at the thought.

„All of it“, the dwarf says, waving his hand impatiently, as the hobbit is still wearing his trousers.

„But you’re still fully dressed“, Bilbo objects.

„Haven’t you already seen what you’re getting?“ Thorin replies not without an almost unperceivable wink in his eyes.

„I could do with a little reminder“, Bilbo says, quite a bit surprised by his own boldness. Maybe he’s going to find his wits again after all.

Thorin gives him an unexpected smile and opens the belt buckle that holds his velvet tunic. He has not bothered putting back on the heavy mail and warm furs after his bath earlier this day, so as soon as he’s got rid of the belt and slipped out of the tunic, he is only clad in a light linen undershirt, his dark blue leather trousers and his boots.

„Would you help me with the lacing?“ he asks, gesturing at the ties of his shirt and Bilbo draws closer only too willingly. He has to stand on tiptoe to reach the knot that binds the shirt at the collar so he is a bit unsteady on his feet and accidentally stumbles against Thorin. The dwarf is even harder than he remembers, it’s like bumping into rock.

„Careful“, Thorin says, catching Bilbo’s underarm in his large hand. It is warm and dry and little electric sparks seem to dance over the spot of skin it touches.

He lets go of Bilbo’s arm to lift his shirt over his head, revealing a torso that would do any stone carver proud. Thick cords of muscles are packed densely on heavy bones, still not overly bulky, they just fill out nicely the wide dwarven frame. Every time Thorin moves, they flex smoothly under fair skin that’s dusted with black hair and covered in new scars and old.

Bilbo gulps at this display of strength deriving from decades of hard labour and countless battles fought. Of course, he’s seen it from a distance and he’s already let his fingers find the hills and hollows of its rugged landscape, but his memories pale before the actual glory of the body in front of him. Gingerly he raises a hand to touch the skin that looks golden in the light of candles and firelight, slightly glowing with a subtle sheen of precious metal. He can feel the heat it radiates before his fingertips even make contact; the dwarf is burning as if still hot from the forge of Aulë the Smith himself.

The palms of the hobbit glide over chest muscles and ruffle the hair that usually lies flat and straight like short fur. Teasingly they brush over nipples and then downwards until they come to rest at the waistband of Thorin’s trousers. Slightly nervously his fingers fumble with the knot of the lacings, unsuccessful in loosening the tightly strung leather ties, till large hands come to the rescue, undoing the knot in the blink of an eye. 

„Satisfied?“ The dwarf rumbles while his big fingers close over Bilbo’s smaller ones and push them further down to cup the straining bulge in his trousers. Even through the thick leather his arousal is hard and hot to the touch and the hobbit matches Thorin’s guttural sounds with a purr of his own.

„Not quite yet“, the hobbit answers and adds in his mind. „I don’t think I shall be unless you’re buried in me to the hilt and I scream with pleasure, just as you promised.“ To his shock he says it out loud and before he can even properly blush, he is whipped around and pushed towards the huge bed. Impatiently a dwarven hand rips open his britches and pulls them down around his knees, and then Thorin’s palm is pressing down on him, bending him over the bed’s edge, so his rear is exposed to hungry fingers. He is so completely and utterly at the dwarf’s disposal, it makes his cock pulse with excitement.

„Be careful what you wish for, little hobbit", the gravelly voice hums into his ear, beard and long hair tickling the tender skin of his neck. It’s the only contact to the steely body behind him apart from the rough hand that holds him down, and he wiggles and squirms, eager for more touch.

A rustling betrays the fact that Thorin with his free hand is liberating his cock from its leather prison and Bilbo senses how he strokes the hard length, once, twice. He tries to turn, to catch a glimpse of the picture, but the strong hand in the small of his back pins him to the bed. All he can see from the angle that he is allowed is Thorin’s face, eyes closed for a moment to savour the delicious friction of his own touch. A frown lies on it, like so often, but this time it’s a frown of pleasure that makes desire shudder down Bilbo’s spine.

Then the dwarf opens his eyes and he smiles, appreciatively, and Bilbo again has this strange feeling of being claimed and owned and he wonders when he came to find this arousing. Hobbits usually are polite people and cautious in matters of the heart. They treat each other with respect and rather ask for permission first than accidentally overstep unspoken boundaries. Courtship is an elaborate ritual of exchanging endearments and trading caresses; pleasure is celebrated with the same diligence as applied to preparing a meal: you take it slow and let it simmer, add some fresh ingredients, then stir it again, always careful, never too audacious. Nothing could be more different from the touch of a hobbit than the greediness of a dwarf king and that’s probably the reason why never in his life has he been as hard as he is now – even though Thorin has barely touched him yet.

The dwarf seems not inclined to catch up on this neglect either, at least he makes no move to repeat the groping of last night, because suddenly, unceremoniously, there is a splash of oil, cool and slick, just inches below the place where his hand rests on Bilbo’s back and involuntarily the hobbit squeaks at the sensation. „You did not really think I’d fuck you dry, without something to ease the way, Master Baggins, did you?“ Thorin purrs as the fluid trickles down the crack of Bilbo’s arse, only to be caught by calloused fingertips and spread over the tight ring of muscle. „I’m far too big to easily fit into your tight hobbit hole, inviting as it may be.“

Bilbo moans in response – at the words and the image of Thorin’s cock they conjure up in his mind. His sounds of pleasure are promptly rewarded by a thick finger, slipping into him, smoothing him open. Thorin is much gentler than Bilbo’s anticipated, taking his time in loosening the tension of his muscles, waiting until the alienness of the finger penetrating him fades, before he adds another. He never goes beyond the first knuckle, only widening the entrance to the dark cavern of the hobbit’s body, and all the while he is humming deeply in his throat. It’s a sound of pleasure as well as of reassurance and it makes Bilbo’s mind melt into a rapture of want and need. He hardly notices the third finger, pushing into him, but concentrates on the friction the bed’s mattress provides for his aching prick and the delicious weight of the hand holding him down and the dark growl of his lover. 

Thorin thinks of a saying in Khuzdûl about the talent of dwarrows for retrieving hidden treasures from abyssal depths and murmuring the words, low under his breath, he thrusts his fingers into the hobbit without a warning. Bilbo’s gasp and the needy whine tell him that he managed to hit just what he was aiming for, and he strokes his fingers again over the spot of pleasure, deep within the hobbit’s body.

The halfling groans his name as he writhes under his touch, again and again like a prayer, and every time the sound tugs at his cock as if Bilbo’s hand were wrapped around it. He can’t wait any longer. Thorin removes his fingers from the hobbit’s tight channel and gathers up what oil he can find on the body before him, greasing his shaft with it until it is slick and ready. Then he leans down, covering the smaller man with his broad chest and kisses his shoulders and neck.

„Please, Thorin, please", the hobbit whimpers as he feels the head of the dwarven cock nudge against his entrance. „Make me scream.“

Thorin for the briefest of moments wonders how they came to be in this most twisted of fantasies but by Durin’s beard, he does not care and neither seems the halfling, who’s so shamelessly begging to be fucked. And only too willingly, he obliges, pressing home into delicious tightness, easing in the thick length of his cock.

Perhaps it’s specifically the darkness of the fantasy that makes the experience so intense. He is in control, in absolute control and someone surrendered to him, body and soul, he is his to do with as he pleases. Thrusting into Bilbo’s body is so much better than anything he’s had in quite a while; not in the slightest does it compare to hand jobs, born from reverence, camaraderie and a sense of duty nor to mounting a money-hungry whore in a cheap brothel. Thorin fears to lose himself in the sensation of the hot, willing flesh around him. It touches something deep inside, his own sleeping drake, a creature of greed and voracity. It takes all of his willpower to restrain himself from simply pounding into the halfling, tearing him to shreds with frantic desire.

The purpose of this encounter does not lie in breaking rock and wrenching gems from its core, but in melting, dissolving into a golden stream of pleasure. And he forces himself to be patient, to make his thrusts long and slow and deep and to savour the moment.

It’s a tantalising rhythm the dwarf sets and Bilbo pants his name again, louder this time, as if to spur him on. The pressure inside him is most exquisite, stroking and rubbing just in the right places. He’s certain if he could get just a little more friction there he’d see stars and probably come without any more stimulation to his cock, that’s still trapped between his belly and the mattress, both far too soft for his present needs. 

But Thorin, as if he could read his mind, slips out of him, and with a strong hand pushes him up on the large bed. „On your knees“, he growls, his voice thick with desire.

The hobbit tries to arrange his already shaky limbs into the right positions, then looks back at the dwarf, who’s finally getting rid of the rest of his clothes. He kicks off the heavy boots and sheds the leather trousers, and at last, he is naked as Aulë created him, but Bilbo is already too far gone to really care for the sheer beauty of his body. What he craves is standing large and proud and no less magnificent than the rest of Thorin between his muscular thighs, and Bilbo swallows hard. Now that he’s laid eyes upon it he cannot imagine how this thing could have fit so easily into him. But it has and he yearns for it to resume its place and before he can help it, a whimper is fleeting from his throat. It so clearly betrays his need, it makes Thorin chuckle.

„And I always thought patience to be your virtue, little hobbit. It seems I was wrong about that, too.“

The mattress shifts with the weight of the dwarf as he joins him on the bed. Again his hand resumes its place in the small of Bilbo’s back. Bend, it says. Yield. Bow to your master.

There is no denial to its demand.

Bilbo’s forehead is pressed against the mattress, his rear raised, utterly exposed to the dwarf behind him. Still there is only the hand touching him. Only this bloody hand like a déjà-vu, sprawl of fingers over heated skin. Thorin will make me beg, he thinks, his cock already pulsing with anticipation, but then the dwarf slides into him again without warning, slams home with unexpected force.

Thorin hisses at the clench of tight walls around him and groans something the hobbit does not understand. It’s one of the guttural sounds of Khuzdûl that makes Bilbo shiver with excitement. The hand in the small of his back wanders to his side and grips his flank, just where it has already left its mark the night before. The other hand buries itself in Bilbo’s hair, clawing at it viciously, until the hobbit moans with pain and pleasure. It is different than it was before, much less playful, much less gentle. Again he tries to catch a glimpse of Thorin behind him, but the strong fingers at the base of his neck pin his head merciless in place. So he reaches out to the dwarf instead, blindly groping to at least touch a bit of thigh, any spot of his flesh. The dwarf grasps his arm and holds it in a grip of iron.

„Later“, he growls. „When I’ve given you permission.“

Words that travel to Bilbo’s groin like a flash, feeding the fire that burns in his belly till it roars and blazes.

Another dwarfish sentence is spoken, deep and dark, like a ritual phrase, and Thorin seems to move in and out of his body with every syllable. A spell to bind him into the sweetness of the moment. And inside Bilbo there’s a scream forming with every ragged breath he draws, with every vigorous thrust inside his body, a scream that will be as much a testimonial of pleasure as an oath of allegiance. After what seemed an eternity, Thorin’s murmur subsides and he is yanked up by his hair to be pressed against the dwarf, skin to skin, back to broad chest.

Powerful arms reach around him, hands pinching his nipple and curling around his cock. It’s the most wonderful of sensations, being dragged into the heat and onto the hardness that is Thorin Oakenshield. The lust flares in his stomach, bright and consumptive. Then lips graze his shoulder with only the slightest hint of teeth, before the dwarf bites down into the tender flesh and the hobbit’s body jerks involuntary, the movement reminding him of the fact Thorin is still buried in him to the hilt, just as he imagined, stretching him, filling him and it feels so incredibly good. Bilbo thinks he might float away on a breeze of bliss if he weren’t held, claimed in so many places at once.

„Your hands on my thighs“, Thorin whispers into his ear, his voice rough. Obediently the hobbit places his palms on the muscular legs, steadying himself. It’s an odd position he finds himself in, he muses in his haze of desire, leaning into the dwarf like that.

„Stroke yourself on me“, Thorin says and Bilbo moves, thrusting up his cock into the waiting fist, enjoying the caress of a callused thumb on its tip for the briefest of moments, before lowering himself onto the dwarf again, relishing the way he is filled so completely. He brushes the hardness inside him just where he needs it most and on a spray of sparks, he rises again. Carried by wave of pleasure he’s drawn out to a sea of ecstasy only to be slammed back by the tide, crashing against coastal cliffs.

As he bucks up into Thorin’s palm and plunges back onto his cock, his thighs begin to quiver and his breath becomes more ragged with every rise and every fall, matching the dwarf’s feral snarls and groans that are only slightly muffled by the softness of the shoulder he’s still locked his mouth on, biting and licking in turns. Thorin’s hand leaves his nipple at last, it’s already deliciously raw and tingling, and travels up into the curve of his throat. Only so lightly it comes to rest there, large paw against tender skin, it does not grasp nor squeeze, just moulds to the skin. A gesture of ownership nonetheless and Bilbo leans into the touch, savouring the slight pressure, the idea of tightening fingers burning hot in his mind.

„Not today", the dwarf responds to his silent suggestions but he can sense his excitement at the thought - in his breathing, in the way his body arches into him and in the barely noticeable increase of pressure on his throat.

Still, the idea adds to their arousal and soon, their steady rhythm takes up speed, takes up fervour. They rock into each other, hard into soft, hands groping and circling and pulling and tugging. The wild growls of the dwarf mingle with the pleas and whimpers and incoherent babbling of the hobbit. Desire coils tight in their bellies, flaring, searing-white. It’s sweet madness, bodies and minds driven to the edge of sanity. Hovering there, at the very brink, ready to tip over and fall, fall into oblivion.

The numbness announcing the peak begins to spread and curl over his thighs, that shake and quake and sensations blur, and Thorin’s fingers so good around his flesh, rubbing it in the same rhythm his cock strokes his sweet spot deep within him. He does not realise he is actually screaming now - Thorin’s name and curses and prayers and everything that crosses his mind. He’s lost long before he finally spends himself in milky strands all over Thorin’s fingers and the dwarf follows him a couple of thrusts later, stuttering in his pace, thrashing and jerking and cursing, spilling his seed deep inside Bilbo’s body.

Then there is silence.

Bilbo slumps against Thorin’s massive chest, gasping for air. He’s thankful for the arms and hands that still hold him in place, without them he’s convinced he’d simply dissolve and melt into the bed. It’s only then, in the wake of their release, that Thorin’s fingers cup his jaw and tilt his head to capture his mouth in a kiss. A gentle touching of lips, tentative slide of tongue against tongue, just as if they had not, only moments ago, been screwing their brains out. „Stay with me tonight", the dwarf breathes into his ear as soon as he has managed to break the kiss. There is so much affection in his voice, the hobbit feels something inside him warm and open and he knows he’s absolutely and utterly lost now. He’s just sealed a pact that signs over his heart to the dwarf and his soul and everything to the last shred of his being. It may be no proper dwarven contract this time but it’s no less binding.

Later, when they lie next to each other in the large bed and Bilbo is downright shining with afterglow, he realises that for the first time he has the opportunity to properly enjoy Thorin’s proximity. And he’s inclined not to miss this chance. And so he presses his nose into thick neck, nuzzling just behind the dwarf’s ear, inhaling as much as possible of the scent that is so very infatuating.

When he finally moves away again, sniffing happily, the dwarf arches an eyebrow at the expression of rapture on his face. „What is it, Master Baggins?“

„You smell delicious", he says, blushing furiously. „Better than freshly baked bread rolls, fried bacon and a good smoke of Old Toby combined.“

Thorin’s chuckle is warm and rather affectionate. „I shall remind you of that whenever you complain about missing second breakfast then.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, little desk drawer creature: Flap flap into freedom! 
> 
> (Chapter two hasn't seen any proof reading. I hope it's not riddled with mistakes.)


	3. The Woods Are Lovely, Dark And Deep…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo’s account of the journey through Mirkwood and the imprisonment in the Halls of the Woodland Realm. 
> 
> Attention, this overlaps headcanon-wise with my fic [Like Gold Out Of Lead](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1175075). Minor Thorin/Thranduil. 
> 
> Beware non-graphic non-con moments, voyeurism, non-graphic violence, more dub-con, heartache, sexual content and gay elves.
> 
> (posted January 20th, 2015)
> 
> 21.02.2015 | Edit: Obviously my summary was not as clear as I thought it was. I repeat - **beware non-graphic non-con moments** \- one very non-connish implication between Thorin and Bilbo, and a scene between Thorin and Thranduil which is also not detailed, but which definitely describes sexual assault. If in question have a look at the specific warning for the story I linked to above. Thanks!  
>  Also while I'm at it, I might add that from chapter 3 on, Thorin is somewhat of an arsehole; sorry to put it this way, there are lots of excuses for his behaviour (Mirkwood-spells, Dragon sickness, the privileges of royals, ladidadida), but that doesn't change his abusive tendencies.

In the days to come, there is nothing Bilbo dwells more upon than this night in Beorn’s house. Neither the magic of Rivendell nor the comfort of home compares with the wonders of these precious few hours he has spent in Thorin’s arms. It’s the first thing he thinks about when he wakes in the morning, stiff and exhausted, on the hard forest floor, and the last when late at night he slips under the covers, tired and drained from wandering amongst sick trees and poisonous air. His sleep is fitful though and his dreams dark and the further they advance into Mirkwood, the less real his memories seem to become. 

Thorin has returned to being his usual moody self, irritable and brooding, impatient even of his closest confidants. Bilbo can’t bear his presence, not when he’s like this, yet there’s no way to escape it. The hostile surroundings forbid any stroll in the undergrowth, no one dares leave the group, least of all a chicken-hearted halfling. There comes an evening though, as gloomy as any, when the dwarf king corners Bilbo at last and – without warning – drags him off into the wilderness. 

His lips are like fire on his skin, searing, scorching, as he shoves him against the chafing-rough bark of a tree. “My sweet little hobbit”, he whispers into Bilbo’s sweat-damp hair while he has his way with him, and the night-dark sweetness of his voice is soothing away the burning and the pain. For better or for worse, Bilbo thinks and keeps on breathing, keeps quiet and calm. There is nothing the cursed forest does not taint.

Thorin kisses him afterwards, hot and sloppy on the mouth, without doubt an expression of gratitude. He doesn’t waste any more time on tenderness though, but quickly adjusts his clothing and motions him to do the same. It’s only when - before turning around to stride back to the camp - he beckons towards the shadows that Bilbo becomes aware of Dwalin’s huge figure in the dark. As realisation hits him – the dwarf’s been there all along, watching – he blushes furiously. 

Dwalin’s expression is blank however when he steps into the sparse moonlight that trickles down to the forest floor. If he disapproves of the scene he’s witnessed, he’s hiding it well. “After you, Master Hobbit”, he growls and Bilbo wonders if he imagines a glint of warmth in his gaze.

He must be here to watch over us, Bilbo thinks as he follows Thorin’s steps down the small trail and listens to the faint clinking of Dwalin’s armour behind them. How stupid of him to assume, Thorin would take him into the woods without guard and protection. Still, the comprehension does naught to dissolve the nausea in the pit of his stomach.

__

If he were so foolish as to believe, he’d feel better in the morning, the bleakness of dawn proves him otherwise: some sort of guilt-soaked stickiness has settled in his guts, makes him gag and retch. His insides are raw with this sickness even Óin can’t conjure up a remedy for, and under the pitiful eyes of the company he finds himself wishing Thorin would never have touched him. 

And then he also wishes for safe return to that moment of bliss amidst cushions and furs, to strong arms and gentle lips, to warm, caring comfort. It’s not about Thorin, it can’t be - he’d refuse to believe that - but all about this place. Yet no longing turns back time, and as hard as he tries he cannot erase the dread simmering in his stomach nor undo the shame corroding his bone. 

It will be better, he tells himself, a lie that at least allows him to tag along, further into these wretched woods. And indeed, the fable begins to take root, once the trees get to suck him into their spell. Like a fever dream the foul allure of the forest unfolds around him. Beneath its dimness Mirkwood is beautiful as poisonous flowers, its air iridescent with the stink of bloom and decay. It creeps into every pore, every nook and cranny, until it doesn’t seem strange and perilious anymore, but more like an old, somewhat peculiar friend. 

Bilbo welcomes the numbness it invokes. If in the mountains, he has found his courage – warm, smooth, golden under his fingertips – in the woods he finds his recklessness. Unafraid he crosses swamps, climbs on trees and plays spiderwebs like harps. Autumn leaves and butterflies support the illusion of friendliness, but it turns out it doesn’t matter: even when the spiders emerge – supposed to be Bilbo’s worst nightmare come true – he barely feels any fear, as if he’s forgotten how it is to feel at all. 

It’s not until he sees the dwarves captured by elves, that something stirs in his heart, and it’s not the kind of breathless wonder and admiration he experienced in Rivendell but a sort of twisted, hate-fueled envy that befalls him.

Even the elves seem tainted by Mirkwood’s spell. Their faces are so hard, their eyes so star-cold, they make Bilbo shudder in his hidden world of shadows. But worst is the way Thorin looks at them, with a hatred that barely conceals his longing. Bilbo understands. They are elves after all, fairest of Eru’s creatures, who could be so blind as to withstand their charm? And Bilbo also refuses to understand. Is Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thrór, not to be above such shallow trickery and cheap pretence? Has he not said that he hates the elves? Truly hates them for their arrogance and treacherous nature?

Bilbo can’t make head nor tail of it, but decides not to let Thorin out of his eyes. He follows him through the Halls of the Woodland Realm, follows him to the heel like a dog follows a master, sneaks after him unseen like the burglar he once set out to become. Higher and higher they climb, the captive dwarf and his hobbit, up to the Elvenking’s throne.

Without the ring on his finger Bilbo might have been impressed by its glory, but it appears the gloom strips him of all awe and infatuation. There are things however that are magificent, regardless of taste or perspective, and Thranduil is one of them. Not even his sardonic smile or his mocking words can change that. He is – without doubt or question - beautiful to behold, even as he allows the magic to flake off his features. 

Bilbo believes that he can sense Thorin’s heart miss a beat at the sight, and suddenly his teeth are all sharp against his lips, so sharp he tastes salt and copper. 

Thorin is not to be swayed by Thranduil’s words, yet after the iron doors of his prison have snapped shut behind him, Bilbo has a good deal of time to wonder whether his defiance may not have caused him to fall into the snare rather than let him escape it. 

__

The hours pass and night falls upon the Elvenking’s halls and when the darkness is thickest, Bilbo finally dares to crawl from his hiding place to call on his king.  
“Thorin…” The name is the first word he speaks since the spiders attacked and it crumbles like dust from his mouth, half choked and brittle, barely loud enough for the dwarf to hear. But Thorin does look up and Bilbo remembers just in time to slip the ring from his finger. 

Nothing could be sweeter than the surprise that lightens up Thorin’s expression. “Bilbo!” he calls out. “How…” Then he remembers that they must not be overheard and steps closer to the bars of his cell, reaching through them towards Bilbo’s face. Drunk on the warmth in his eyes, Bilbo doesn’t hesitate to lean into his palm and savour its caress. 

“It’s so good to see you”, Thorin says. “The spiders… I feared you lost!”

Bilbo can’t help but laugh, so boundless is his joy about this reunion, about the tenderness in Thorin’s demeanour. If only there were no iron bars between them, if only Thorin could kiss him, pull him close, into the safety of strong arms. He’s so caught up in this vision, Thorin’s deep voice hardly gets through to him, when he asks: “How did you get in here – unhindered by elven magic and also unseen by the guards?” He lets go of Bilbo and only then the spell is broken.

“I, well… you …” Bilbo stammers but Thorin has no patience for awkward explanations.  
“Nevermind”, he interrupts quickly. “I do not need to know your secrets. It’s more important now to decide how best to make use of your freedom. There must be some kind of way out of here.” He has begun to pace up and down his little cell like a caged animal, as if the prospect of escape alone were enough to break them out of their prison. 

“Way out… yes, I suppose so”, Bilbo says hesitantly. Now that he sees Thorin’s enthusiasm he fears he can only disappoint him. “No reason to get all-too excited, I’m afraid”, he tries to allay the dwarf’s fervour. “To get in here unseen is one thing. To get you all out, not only out of your cells, but out of these Halls, quite another.”

“You shall find a way, Master Burglar, I have no doubt about it”, Thorin says and his smile makes Bilbo’s heart leap and his worries disappear. How could he ever have questioned the dwarf’s fondness for him? 

“Now, in the meanwhile, may I trouble you for a small favour?” Thorin asks and Bilbo nods, hope flaring up inside him like fire fed with oil – only to be quenched again by a sober request: “Would you be so kind as to deliver a message to Balin?”

Needless to say that being appointed royal messenger is not how Bilbo imagined the culmination of their reunion but he puts a good face on the matter and does Thorin’s bidding.  
Later on however, when he is back in his hiding place, nibbling whatever elvish food he has gotten his hands on, the gloom his secret treasure casts does not only prevent him from actually tasting anything he eats – but also from crying with frustration and the fear, that in the end this journey might strip him of everything he loves.

__

Bilbo knows the sound of a slap to the face, the smack of flesh upon flesh, but he is not prepared for the muffled impact of moonstone-armed fingers on cheekbone. He almost wishes for the familiar noise, it would be reassuring, like everything was alright after all, but the room is eerily silent, mute as if it had sworn to keep a secret, whatever should happen within its walls. All that’s to be heard is Thorin’s stifled groan of pain, his sharp intake of breath. He has ceased struggling against the hold of the elven guards a long while ago; resistance has been futile anyway. Although that does not mean he has given in. Even as blood begins to blossom under his skin, he holds his tongue. It takes more for a dwarf to break.

“All I ask is what’s rightfully mine”, the Elvenking hisses. He is still beautiful in his fury yet terribly so. His looming figure seems to fill the whole cell, his brightness blazing, and without noticing, Bilbo catches his breath.

Bilbo who cowers in a corner and digs his fingernails into his palms and his teeth into his knuckles to stop himself from drawing Sting – or from letting a scared whimper escape his throat, he’s not sure which. One option may not be as likely as the other but both would be equally stupid. He can’t possibly do anything to help Thorin. Any move, any objection would only ruin their chance of escape. So he resorts to prayers and silent pleas. In his head he begs Thorin to simply give the Elvenking what he wants, to end this torment. But to no avail. He is, after all, a dwarf and as stubborn as any of his kind. 

Another blow splits Thorin’s lip.  
Red-hot drips the blood on the floor.  
Red-hot would be the rage in the hobbit’s heart if the ring did not dull all emotions.

Bilbo bites hard into numb fingers. This world is too big for him, too vast for his small mind to grasp, and it grows larger every moment he sits here and watches a scene that should not be allowed to happen. How can such a noble creature be so cruel? It does not seem right, it belies all tales of elvish greatness. And Bilbo wishes dearly to just wake from this dreary dream, to the cosiness of his own home, next to his fireplace perhaps, with the lamp still shining.

__

Nothing, not even that wretched hour, prepares Bilbo for the next time Thorin is summoned, not for the plummeting feeling in his guts, not for the cold dread nor for anything else happening that night. Where such mundane perils as orcs and goblins, spiders and poisonous air have failed to put proper terror in his heart, at last an elf seems to succeed at the task. 

The night is deep and dark when the guards come for the dwarven king; stoney-faced and cruel-hearted they strip him off his shirt and put him in irons, the heavy shakles and chains like a mockery of royal splendour. Then they drag him off into the depths of the palace, through brightly lit hallways and richly furnished rooms into quarters Bilbo has never set foot in, quarters that appear worthy of a king. Some part of him knows exactly what this means and it takes all of his willpower, not to throw himself into the guards’ way and at their feet and beg for mercy. 

Instead he follows them, silent shadow that he has become, nimbly slips behind them through closing doors. It’s an art he has perfected these last days; and he would be proud of himself if not the circumstances were so unfortunate.

Thranduil waits for his prisoner in a pose that suggests boredom: a languid sprawl of elegant limbs, his perfect face impassive as ever. Gone are crown and formal attire. He is clad in simple robes of silverish cloth, his feet are bare, his fingers naked. His only adornment the waterfall hair cascading over his shoulders. His fingers are curled around a cup of wine as if he’s awaiting amusement and Bilbo’s heartbeat quickens with fright. Never again will he be deceived by the nobility of his brow, the charm of his unearthly beauty. He has seen what Thranduil is capable of and he won’t allow himself to be lured into a false sense of safety by an act of unconcerned demeanour.

The heavy chains rattle with foreboding when the guards force Thorin to his knees, to their lord’s feet, before taking their leave, hastily as if ashamed of their doing. 

Bilbo’s mouth goes dry as he watches the Elvenking’s gaze linger on Thorin’s bound form, on the defiant strain of his muscles. He sees the starlight-glint of cruelty in his eyes and also the shadow of something else, pushing against the mask of impassivity, wonder perhaps, and amazement.

“Have you reconsidered my offer?” Thranduil asks. Underneath the silk of his voice the words are sharp like paper. Bilbo knows what he wants of course, knows his demands and what he’s offering in return. He has heard him say it between the blows of ring-girt fingers against wilful bone: the elf would let the company of Thorin Oakenshield go, allow them to stir the worm from its lair and bring a blaze of dragon fire down on the world, if only they promised him the gems he desires, jewellery made from white stones. 

Unsurprisingly Thorin’s answer does not differ from his last, and he is even less polite about it. What he growls and hisses in dwarfish appears to be an inacceptable insult – judging from the way Thranduil pales. Bilbo braces himself for the familiar punishment, but the elf does not raise his hand. He just smiles an odd little smile and, when the dwarf tries to rise, places his foot against Thorin’s sturdy chest. Almost gently he pushes him back down on his knees and Thorin’s resistance dies under the touch.

If Bilbo has feared more abuse, what comes is even worse than beatings and threats. It is a violation that goes far beyond anything he could have imagined. 

Spellbound his eyes follow the elven foot as it rubs circles over Thorin’s skin, and he bites into his knuckles harder than ever to remain silent. He dares not look at Thorin, afraid of what he will read in his face. He’s known it all along, his gut told him so from the first moment, though he’s refused to believe it. 

No promises, no expectations, he remembers his vow, yet he cannot help the jealousy, the sudden flare of darkness in his heart. He is tempted to draw his sword and thrust it deep into this being that he thought so etheral, so holy and that yet is so lewd and depraved. He cannot bear how these immortal hands claim his lover’s body, inch by inch. It is wrong, it is forced, it is…

A small sound pierces the silence. But the ghost of a moan, yet it echoes like drums in Bilbo’s ears. Quickly his eyes dart to Thorin’s face and his spirit crumbles at the sight: torment and pleasure are indistinguishable in his expression, he is lost in the elfish touch, and beautiful in his ruin. More beautiful than Bilbo has ever seen him, as if he shone even through the veil of murk and gloom shrouding the little hobbit. 

The rush of heat he imagines to surge through Thorin’s body and limbs is reflected in his own belly, like all sensations dimmed and muffled by his disguise, but still urgent enough to bring about the first stirrings of arousal.

Breathless he watches the bliss invoked by Thranduil’s hand and for a moment he hates them both, and he loves them, too. He wants to run his fingers over their skin, wants to taste them, kiss them, worship them… Even here, in his bleak realm of magic and dust, where there are no flavours nor passions, he feels their pull. It settles in the flesh, the treacherous tug of longing, that wants to be sated, yet never will be. Has he not, since his desire has fully awoken for the first time, that night atop the Carrock, learned that his body seems to ressemble a leaking bucket? No matter how much you pour into it, it’s never quite full. 

He wants Thorin, even now that he’s in the clutches of a captor, wants him with every fibre and every breath he draws. He cannot not want him, cannot help feasting on the way he trembles under the conquest of elegant fingers; as vile as it may be, he enjoys Thorin’s corruption and the sick pleasure it kindles in himself.

Just when Bilbo thinks he’s about to lose his mind from shame and wantonness and disgust, the spectacle is over and the spell broken. Lust changes effortlessly, fluidly into anger, and it seems to take but the blink of an eye for Thranduil to storm off in a temper and Thorin to be left – apparently – alone in the room. 

For a moment, Bilbo feels like a tempest has passed over him but the relief only lasts until he fully registers Thorin’s state of disarray. His wrists are still shackled, the lacings of his breeches unravelled, the garment open. It is obvious what must have happened, how he was humiliated and despoiled. The guards, they may not find him like this, Bilbo thinks feverishly, not the proud, noble Thorin Oakenshield. And yet he cannot do anything without revealing himself to his King, and he’s not sure which discovery would ashame Thorin more. 

But just when he is about to pluck up his courage and set out to attend to the matter, the shackles come loose around the powerful dwarven wrists, they fall away as if undone by invisible hands and Balin’s words echo in Bilbo’s mind No one leaves these Halls but by the King’s consent. It appears the Elvenking has relinquished his hold over his captive and Thorin has just opportunity enough to adjust his clothing before the guards return to bring him back to his cell.

“Cover yourself”, one of them barks, tossing Thorin his shirt, but Bilbo notices that both elves avoid to look at the dwarf, lest their eyes may give away their compassion or pity - or perhaps shame.

And again Bilbo follows his King back to his cell, as light-footed and faithful as ever, yet in his veins the desire is throbbing like a snake’s venom.

__

Bilbo waits for the steps of the elves to fade away, for the night to unfold around him again, before he slips the ring from his finger. 

“Thorin”, he whispers in the dark. This time the roughness of his voice is not only due to lack of use. Arousal is scraping at his insides, hungrily, greedily. And this time his silent wish is fulfilled: a strong hand reaches for him through iron bars and pulls him close. Thorin’s breath is desert-hot on his face when he speaks Bilbo’s name in return, a passionate growl that makes the hobbit’s spine tingle with excitement. Please, please, please, he repeats like an incantation in his mind as he closes his eyes and leans further into the metal. 

Lips brush over his in a pretence of patience, an effort to honour hobbit-customs, and a golden wave of affection floods Bilbo’s heart. He is inclined to declare his love, here and now, but then the prelude is over and the dwarf’s mouth descends on him with raw urgency and sucks all thoughts from his mind. It’s a kiss as good as it’s possible to have under the circumstances, and Bilbo melts into it with all the zeal he can find in his wanton heart. 

Thorin’s fingers rest heavily against his skull, buried deep in the untamed curls, to steady Bilbo’s head while his tongue licks into his mouth until the hobbit’s knees go all weak and his hands clutch helplessly at the cloth of Thorin’s shirt, desperate for anything to hold on to. In his belly the arousal is raving for fuel, its madness flickering between torment and delight. All reason is slipping away, and what remains is a mindless hunger. But Thorin is the ruler of these passions, his grasp on the hobbit does not falter nor do his lips that still, relentlessly, demand submission. And Bilbo is only too happy to oblige. He allows his mouth to be plundered by dwarfish greed, even moans his approval, a small whimper in the absolute silence, to be rewarded by a low chuckle. 

“Always so eager”, Thorin murmurs. His fingers let go of Bilbo’s head and reach for his wrists instead. He looks at his hobbit with hooded eyes and that tender smile, Bilbo loves so much, that makes him almost burst with happiness, while, ever so slowly, he guides his palms over his torso, over the plain of his stomach down to his crotch. The glowing heat of dwarfish arousal is nearly singeing his finger tips and Bilbo can feel that Thorin is still rockhard in his breeches, the throb palpable through the leather, and he presses his palm against the hardness with the sudden pride of ownership. Thorin’s groan like music in his ears, he breathes “I shall take care of it”, and dutifully he kneels.

Deft fingers set to the task, he loosens the ties of Thorin’s trousers and the dwarf sighs with relief as the pressure lessens on his engorged flesh. Bilbo’s hands tremble a little, when he reaches inside the breeches to retrieve his prize. He has seen Thorin’s cock before of course, has already touched and licked and sucked and swallowed it, but never like this. Never without hurry, never with this kind of power. He wraps his finger around the hard length experimentally. It’s just as he remembers it, thick and silky and almost feverish. He tightens his fist a little and enjoys the slight twitch he invokes and Thorin’s barely audible gasp. Encouraged, he moves his hand, drawing back the tender skin and exposing the shaft’s blunt pinkish head. Goodness, this looks delicious, he thinks, just like strange kind of flower, rosey blossomed, adorned with a drop of morning dew. 

“Get on with it, Burglar”, Thorin growls, “t’is no time for poetry.” 

A tad startled by this sudden change of tone, Bilbo glances up, only to see Thorins mouth twitch with amusement. He can indeed read my mind, Bilbo thinks and can’t help feeling elated and proud. Perhaps these are the signs that they’re growing close and that’s more than Bilbo has ever dared dreaming of.

He locks his gaze to Thorin’s, lets him see how he licks his lips in anticipation, then dabs his tongue quickly into the drop of precome. It’s salty and unfathomable and as delicious as it looks. A appreciative sigh escapes him, before his lips close around the bitter-sweetness of Thorin’s flesh, and he sees how Thorin’s eyes go wide and how he bites his chafed lips to stifle a sound of pleasure. 

He’s so breathtakingly beautiful it almost hurts, Bilbo thinks and his chest feels all tight with longing. He presses his tongue against the underside of Thorin’s cock and curls his lips tighter around it, moving his head slowly with his fingers still wrapped around the root. 

One of Thorin’s hands finds its way into Bilbo’s hair and gently strokes in consonance with his movements. And Bilbo gives his best to please him: swirls his tongue around the plump cockhead, makes his lips nice and firm and his mouth wet and eager. I’m sucking off a king, he thinks while he listens to Thorin’s breathing growing heavy and heavier. It is the most enticing notion and Bilbo wishes he could somehow find a way to relief his own craving, but all he dares is to rub his free hand over the bulge in his trousers, anxious that otherwise he’d neglect his duties. Later, he tells himself. There will be time for that later. 

He tries to concentrate on the matter at hand, tries not to think too much about his own need or the chance, they might be discovered by guards. His mind wanders back to that one night they were safe and in a proper bed and everything was just like he has ever wished for. When there were no elfish fiends nor iron bars.

He swallows Thorin as deep as he can, his fingers always in the wake of his mouth, stroking what skin he cannot reach with the avid lick of his tongue nor the greedy gulp of his throat. He is taking his sweet time, going slow and slower as he senses the building tension in Thorin’s body. He wants to draw this out as long as possible, savour the moment and the power he has over this mighty creature. 

But soon the dwarf’s impatience is making itself felt. Ragged fingernails begin to dig into Bilbo’s scalp and the grasp of Thorin’s strong hands becomes merciless like steel. “Don’t tease me”, he hisses as he pulls Bilbo’s head closer, towards himself, shoves himself deeper down his throat, enjoys the moan around him, the vibrations like butterfly wings on his heated flesh.

There is the darkness again, Bilbo thinks, while he lets himself be claimed and owned, his mouth as slack as he can make it. The voracity of a king is his right and privilege, and Bilbo knows that he will be rewarded for his services when the time comes and the notion is red-hot in his belly. 

He glances up at Thorin who seems lost in his pleasure, eyes closed, brow furrowed, much like he’s looked in Thranduil’s arms. I can give him this, Bilbo thinks, and I will go through with it, I will bring him release.  
He raises his hand and trails it over the sturdy thighs upwards, up and further up, tracing the outline of muscles, until he brushes his fingers over the underside of Thorin’s balls, pressing their tips firmly against spot behind them, a move that obviously brings him back into control, because a shudder runs through the dwarf and his breathing sounds even harsher. Bilbo repeats his action, yet this time he sucks, too, and the dwarf’s knees buckle before him. The hobbit’s hum is pure victory and also the last straw. 

Thorin comes in a flare of heat, a rush of salt that leaves an almost sweet taste in Bilbo’s mouth and unquenched yearning in the pit of his stomach. Still the gentle rub of Thorins fingers on his scalp is lovely as are the dwarfish words he mutters under his breath, or so Bilbo suspects from the way they sound in his lustpounding ears.

He lets go of Thorin’s cock with a wet pop, well aware of how lewd it must look when it slips from his swollen lips. Just as he wants to sit back on his heels, Thorin’s hands stop him. They urge him to his feet and then his King draws him into another kiss, a kiss that speaks of fondness and appreciation and Bilbo tries not read any promise into it, though – to tell the truth – he does not succeed.

__

Quick-quick the hobbit-heart pounds, swift-swift the hobbit-feet patter. As fast as he dares, for he’s afraid to be discovered if he’s too hasty, Bilbo moves through the night-flooded hallways, deeper into the entrails of the palace, in search for a quiet, a safe place. He needs to take care of this madness that coils in his belly. If it were not for the ring, Bilbo is certain he’d burst with pent-up tension. The rushing of blood in his ears is almost deafening, when he finally finds what he’s been looking for: a remote spot in what appears to be Thranduil’s wine cellars. He squeezes behind a couple of barrels where no one could possibly see him, and takes off the ring. 

The sudden surge of arousal is delightful and agonising, a clamour of need that chimes through his body. His fingers are frantic to open his clothes, seeking skin. On a whim of insanity, Bilbo decides to withstand the urge to hurry and takes it slow – the teasing glide of palms over his chest, the firm rubbing of fingertips against nipples. He imagines Thorin touching him, or perhaps Thorin being touched by Thranduil. Pictures swim in his mind, while his hands pretend not to be his own, sliding deeper and further down, grasping at last the hot, stiff flesh that screams to be stroked. One languid pull – and the resulting sharp tug of desire – makes all resolve forgotten, and soon he thrusts greedily into his fist, thinking of larger, rougher fingers claiming his pleasure, and a low, raw voice whispering endearments he wants to lose himself in. The memory of husky words hums through Bilbo, a deep, dark stream on which the white crests of arousal dance and spin. 

He lets himself be carried away, every stroke a new wave of sensations, and thinks of what Thorin would do to him, if he ever got out of his prison, and how he himself would pleasure his King, if he allowed it. 

His toes curl excitedly against the oak of the next barrel, when he envisions Thorin’s head between his legs, the magic whisper of Khuzdûl against his heated skin, the slight scratch of beard, then the intoxicating touch of tongue, of lips. He is devoured not only by a hungry mouth but also by brilliant, piercing eyes. Bilbo’s eyes flutter shut, there is nothing but the feverish fingers on his flesh, and the imaginations that flow and seethe, and then, just when he’s about to come, a mental picture flashes into his mind. Thranduil’s sleek hair falling over Thorin’s broad back, as he leans over him, and then Bilbo senses his push in the shift of Thorin’s weight, sees the ink-black spill of pupils, feels the desperate groan vibrating around him and it’s all so vivid, like a moment torn out of time. 

The small hobbit’s body goes rigid, just for this small piece of eternity, until the tension splinters in violent shudders and jerks. His feet kick against the barrel, and his seed spills hot over his fingers, and a name falls from his lips, half oath, half spell, commited only to the listening dark.

__

Bilbo wakes to the sound of voices – the Sindarin like a brook’s melody, almost lulling him back to sleep – and it takes him several moments to understand the danger he’s in and the fear spikes white-hot, just before he slips on the ring and back into safety.

Through the barrels he catches a glimpse of a group of elves, opening what appears to be a wooden trap door, and suddenly the gurgle of water is filling the cave, and Bilbo realises he’s heard it before. An underground stream, he thinks, relief flooding him like sunshine. This, finally, may be their way out, and he sits quiet and watches and waits.

He observes how the elves go about their business, pull up barrel upon barrel from the unseen depths of the river, while one of them, apparently called Galion, takes an inventory of the goods.

He also takes notice of how Elros, the Master of Keys, greets him, when he comes by for a visit, sees the delight on Galion’s face, sees the almost casual brush of their hands and the covert glances and his heart leaps. He’s almost certain now that all he’s got to do is to bide his time and an opportunity for escape will present itself. So he keeps on lingering in the shadow and waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly two years since I posted this fic... and now - to my own amazement - the slashiness of BOFTA made me actually write some sort of bridge-chapter so I can continue my small Bagginshield-endeavour >> tbc that means. 
> 
> Style might be a lot different than in the first two chapters; sorry for that. I hope you like it anyway.  
> Also the denunciation of mistakes will be richly rewarded with virtual gold and karmic coin.


	4. And Miles To Go Before I Sleep…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erebor is won and waits to be defended.
> 
> Bilbo's POV. I don't think I'll change again to Thorin's perspective...
> 
> No one dies in this chapter. It's only a bit of hurt and comfort and foolish hope.  
> Otherwise expressed: surprisingly fluffy thanks to the charm of magic acorns. Well, considering...  
> Have fun!
> 
> As usual mistakes want to be reported, comments are cherished, kudos warms my greedy heart.

“You’ve got keen eyes, Master Baggins”, Thorin says – and Bilbo’s foolish heart leaps at these words of appreciation, like it always does at his lord’s beck and call, no matter how often he doubts his feelings, no matter how often he tells himself to let go. Thorin is his king, not his lover, his moods come and go like the tide, sometimes he is tender, sometimes harsh, but usually indifferent (which is hardest to bear). And Bilbo knows he cannot hope for more than the occasional touch or bout of passion, and still he does.

If only he can prove himself, he will earn Thorin’s love, he’s convinced of it. And so he stays to solve a riddle, when all hope seems lost, because he believes in the impossible, because he has to, and in the end he succeeds. As the moon casts the day’s last light on the rock and the magic unfolds, all he can think of is his prize, a soft gaze, gentle fingers and urgent lips…

Later he will wonder whether it was not him and him alone, who wrought ruin upon them all by finding the door to the accursed mountain. But for another night he lies quite contented in Thorin’s thankful embrace.

__

Bared steel is the first sign. When he is greeted by Thorin’s blade instead of his cheer, when the dwarf is outraged that he has not found the stone instead of being glad, he has survived, when he confronts him even as the dragon is closing in, Bilbo knows there lies a terrible truth in the worm’s words about the Arkenstone. And he cannot stop repeating them in his head: _Watch it destroy him. Watch it corrupt his heart and drive him mad._

And when the prophecy comes true and the Elvenking’s words, and Laketown screams in the night, ablaze with dragon fire, Thorin does not even watch like the rest of them, terrified with what they have done, but turns away, eyes fixed on the mountain, his kingdom, his prize. Bilbo’s heart trembles, and even when he sees the serpent fall and perish, and relief washes over him, a shadow of foreboding remains to fester like the sickness that grows in Thorin’s mind.

The fire dies upon the lake and darkness falls over Erebor, thick as silence, and nothing is to be heard but the clatter of coins underneath the dwarfs’ feet, like the murmur of their ancestors, yet the King’s jewel remains lost.

__

Bilbo finds there is another spell that lies upon Erebor – not only the poisoning sickness of a dragon, the greed shimmering over the gold in the vast halls and simmering in the heart of their king, but, perhaps, some of the proverbial stubbornness of dwarves.

While Thorin makes them all look for the Arkenstone, comb every pile of treasure, upend every chest and search every chamber – an endeavour which Bilbo knows very well to be futile, since he is only too aware of the stone’s actual whereabouts, has hidden it safely away from prying eyes – the hobbit gets to see quite a bit of the place and its former splendour. And if he learns anything about the dwarf-kingdom wandering its halls, then it’s this: It was meant to last. Even though more than a century has passed since Erebor fell, there are still books and chairs and bedding and even clothes to be found that remain intact and usable. Bilbo would have expected everything but metal and stone turned to dust, yet it appears, not only dwarves are made from stern stuff but also their devices and tools and possessions, and there is some comfort in that.

 _He_ might persist as well. He might not shatter under the strain of the sickness. Maybe it’s just like a fever that in the end will break and pass. Bilbo wants – no, he needs to believe this with all the fervour he can muster, he repeats it like a prayer with every draw of breath, with every sip of water and every step he takes. He is convinced, if he only withholds the Arkenstone for a little bit longer, only a little bit, Thorin will get over this fit of madness and once again become the noble, majestic dwarf he was that one evening he knocked on Bilbo’s door. That one evening, when all that counted in the world, was a quiet supper…

O how silly he was then, how ignorant of the scheme of things!

Bilbo almost thinks fondly of the staid gentle-hobbit he used to be, who knew nothing of hardship or fear or misery. Sometimes it’s hard to imagine how it will be, once he comes home. So much has changed. Can he ever sit back comfortably in an armchair with a pipe and a good cup of tea, now that he knows how it is to sleep on bare rock and walk on pure gold, how it feels to slay spiders and orcs and what the brimstone-breath of a dragon smells like?

His hand has found its way into its pocket, like so often in the last weeks, groping for that round smooth piece of courage he carries, but in the end it’s something else that he pulls out: an acorn he picked up in Beorn’s garden the morning after the night he spent with Thorin.

Smallest of his treasures perhaps, this little oak nut, no magic ring, no king’s jewel, and yet, in moment like these, it feels like it’s the most valuable thing he has ever owned. A memory of a few precious hours and a promise to himself – to return home safely and plant this acorn in his garden, in Bagend, watch it grow into a proud tree, like the one that once provided Thorin with a branch to wield when he needed it most. It will be like having a piece of Thorin with him (even if the dwarf is not his to take), a keepsake, to remind him of his love and of his loss. Because that is what he has begun to understand in the last days: he cannot stay.

Thorin is changing. He is getting more paranoid by the hour, and there seems to be nothing that can put a stop to it. Bilbo wishes he could convince him to leave the mountain, only for a couple of days perhaps, until the dragon’s poison loses its grasp on him, - and heaven knows he tried - but his pleas and reasons fall on deaf ears. They go as unheeded as Balin’s advice and Dwalin’s suggestions. Not even Thorin’s sister-sons can sway him. He is even more obstinate than usual, and Bilbo has witnessed a lot of pigheadedness on the dwarf’s part over the last months.

It breaks Bilbo’s heart to see him like this – suspicious of his closest friends, his most trusted companions, his family. Those who followed him faithfully, without doubt and question, into certain death. Bilbo has seen Fíli’s frown, Kíli’s wide-eyed stare, Dwalin’s stony expression – and above all Balin’s tears and sorrow. O they love him dearly and o yes, he is their king, always has been, always will be, and yet Thorin cannot see it anymore.

Bilbo looks down on the acorn on his palm and makes a wish. Wishes that by some unknown magic, this small tree-fruit would save Thorin, just like an oak already had, years ago.

“What is that? In your hand?” Thorin’s voice is thunderous and Bilbo flinches at the implied accusation, only too conscious of the stone he’s keeping for himself.

 “It's nothing”, he stutters.

 “Show me”, Thorin demands with a glare sharp as daggers and Bilbo puts out his hand in compliance, swallowing nervously, and his explanation sounds much like an apology. “It... I picked it up in Beorn's garden.”

Thorin’s gaze softens as he looks at the acorn. “You've carried it all this way…”, he states in amazement, as if only a hobbit could conceive such a droll idea.

“I'm going to plant it in my garden, in Bagend”, Bilbo says and tries to be blithe about it, although he feels, his heart might break any moment. It’s almost a normal conversation we’re having here, Bilbo thinks, and then Thorin smiles, actually smiles, for the first time in days,as if he’s forgotten that he is now the king of this mountain and besotted by its treasure hoard and enraged about the absence of a certain stone.

“That's a poor prize to take back to the Shire”, he says and he looks nearly humbled by Bilbo’s modesty, as if – even through the veil of his sickness – he catches a glimpse of what really matters in life, and Bilbo’s pulse quickens with hope. Perhaps he has at last found a way to get through to the dwarf.

“One day it'll grow”, he says “And every time I’ll look at it, I'll remember... remember everything that happened, the good, the bad, and how lucky I am that I made it home.”

Affection floods Thorin’s expression and it’s like the sun coming out behind the clouds.

“Tell me of it, of the Shire and your oak-tree”, he all but purrs and draws closer, and Bilbo gasps for breath, and then the large hand cradles his face and the sapphire-warmth of Thorin’s eyes is upon him and he feels like melting into it.

“The Shire is a gentle land, as you well know, of babbling brooks and rolling hills, grassy slopes and fertile fields, small villages and shade-giving groves…” This is about as far as he comes, before Thorin begins to open his shirt, and he falls silent. He swallows hard with every button, the clever dwarfish fingers undo.

“Go on”, Thorin just says, as if this was the most usual thing to do. He does not even look at Bilbo, so caught up is he in his task, and Bilbo obeys…

“It is spring, that I love the most”, he continues, “the Thrimidge-sun that so pleasantly warms the skin as one delights in the lush greens and… what are you doing?”  
Thorin’s hands have reached the waistband of his trousers but they do not stop there, they wander further, palm his cock through the fabric and it hardens instantly.  
“Don’t stop”, Thorin whispers as he traces the outlines of Bilbo’s swollen flesh and Bilbo thinks along the same lines, though he finds it increasingly difficult to gather his wits.

“The lush greens”, he picks up where he left off, “and the bright blue sky with its fleecy clouds and the flowers, colourful and nice-smelling and buzzing with bees and… oh”  
Thorin’s clever fingers have unlaced his trousers, and his cock suddenly springs free, fully erect and heavy, and those wicked fingers catch it and wrap themselves around it, and Bilbo’s mind simply goes blank.

“Tell me, Bilbo Silvertongue, charmer of dragons”, Thorin breathes into his ear, “when spring comes, where will you plant this acorn of yours?”  
Bilbo doubts the dwarf really waits for an answer, because his hands are still busy, one with moving up and down his cock, a curl of fingers that does not even pretend do be gentle, the other with stripping away pieces of garment, one by one, until the hobbit is utterly naked. Yet still he does as he is asked.

“On… on the meadow… in front of the house… I suppose…”, he stutters and tries to stay upright, even as his legs seem about to give out and his guts coil into pure need. It’s increasingly hard to focus on the imagination of Shire landscapes with the merciless hand of a dwarf around your cock, thank you very much. And it’s not made any easier by the fact that he stands bare in front of him and Thorin eyes him much like he’s gazing at riches these days: with the black coal burn of desire in his pupils. Goosebumps erupt on Bilbo’s skin and he’s not sure what to blame for it – the piercing stare or the cool air of the mountain. Involuntarily he shivers.

“You have no idea how lovely you are”, Thorin murmurs as his fingers run lightly, absentmindedly over Bilbo’s collarbone, coarse tips over smooth skin, leaving a trail of tingles in their wake. It appears as if he’s forgotten that his other hand is already wrapped around the halfling’s cock in a much less gentle fashion.

Bilbo does not feel in the least lovely though, he’s never been described like that, he is no fair maiden or pretty flower, what he feels like is… well aroused would be an appropriate term. Until now he’s used to Thorin’s pace, to the sudden flare of his passion, and he’s adapted himself to it. These days it does not take much to wake his lust. Like one tiny spark and he’s on fire. One snap of dwarfish fingers and he is ready for him and wantonly so.

And Thorin knows very well what kind of power he wields over the little hobbit. He knows how his voice alone, rich night-spun silk, is almost enough to undo him.  
“I’m inclined to keep you, little burglar.” His voice is a purr against the sensitive shell of his ear, and it makes Bilbo tremble.

What could be more arousing than to be desired by a king, Bilbo thinks. But he also thinks of the effect the gold has on Thorin, how it turns him into a stranger, a mere shadow of himself. And suddenly, in his memory, the Shire seems even more pure and healthy and sun-drenched, like a spell to wield against the oncoming darkness.

 “You could come with me then”, he suggests, in a moment of daft hope, and its effect is remarkable. The desire in Thorin’s eyes changes, muted by this heart-wrenching softness, that mixture of knowledge and sorrow and tenderness that never fails to capture Bilbo’s heart, and he smiles.

“How come, they say we dwarves are the stubborn ones when it’s you who would not give up on anything, Master Hobbit”, he says and kisses him with these sad, smiling lips, that can be so meek and mellow if only they choose to be. He kisses him soft and slow and mind-numbingly, spine-meltingly gentle, and Bilbo’s hands tangle themselves in Thorin’s mane, to hold on to him, to this moment, forever. _I love you_ , his little heart drums. _I love you, I love you, I love you to my last days._

Thorin’s tongue is no less tender, when it slips past Bilbo’s lips to draw the most wonderful sounds from his throat, small keens and high whimpers and breathy moans, every lick an explosion of sensual sparks that spawn trails of pleasure. The touch burns in his veins and tugs at his guts and feeds into a hunger that feels much like starving. It is the sweetest torment, one Bilbo would gladly be caught in for the rest of his life.

The dwarf pulls him into the cover of his heavy coat, and Bilbo comes to wonder, how strange it is, that Thorin is still fully dressed in his magnificent attire of armour and furs and royal velvet, when Bilbo himself is stark-naked – and how oddly exciting. He leans into the mailed chest and is surprised to find it almost hot. He would have expected the steel to be cool against his bare skin but it glows with a feverish heat, that’s even warmer than Thorin’s body. How very curious, he thinks, but then another squeeze of the fist that never released its hold on him makes all astonishment scatter. His essence is drawn to a pinpoint…

“Thorin”, he gasps and his hands clutch for purchase, claw at cloth and furs and metal, and Thorin only laughs into his mouth and Bilbo swallows it like the best food he’s ever had, because in all the gloom and doom he has not even believed such joy possible anymore.

“What is it?” Thorin whispers between kisses, as if he didn’t know all-too-well what he does to him, and – to further contradict the apparent innocence of his question – adds such a vicious twist to the movement of his hand that Bilbo topples against him as his knees finally refuse their service. But Thorin’s got him, lifts him up with such ease, such impossible strength, without even breaking the kiss. He pulls Bilbo with him as he sits down on the very-same bench Bilbo occupied mere minutes ago (while his mail chinks and his coat rustles and his hobbit moans his approval).

There might have been times when Bilbo would have thought it queer to sit on another man’s lap. But then he would have thought a lot of things queer and inappropriate for a hobbit, that now seem most natural to him. To straddle Thorin’s powerful legs, be vulnerable and cherished and safe in his embrace, turns out to be the most wonderful of sensations.

“Thorin”, he repeats and then utters what he has not dared say aloud before: “I want you… please…” It spills from his lips with a lot less eloquence that he would have hoped for, but then it still has the desired effect. And the dwarf responds with a sound that’s neither a groan nor a purr but something else, something entirely feral and yet, not at all the madness that usually drives him these days, more like satisfaction and approval and then he reaches between them to unlace his own breeches.

Yes-yes-yes, Bilbo thinks and wraps his arms around Thorin’s brawny neck to support himself, and waits for the nudge of his cock against his opening. The ardour is pulsing inside him with ever increasing urgency and his mouth is desperate as it seeks Thorin’s lips.

“Patience”, the dwarf rumbles and Bilbo senses how he is stroking himself and it occurs to him, that he has not touched Thorin yet, not really, and that the dwarf is still fully clothed, but for his cock that must lie now hard and heavy and delicious in his large hand. But before he can dwell on the picture, the dwarven tool already pushes lightly against him, just like he’s anticipated.

“I’m ready”, he says and he is, in deed, already loose from Thorin’s cock and his own hands, and well-oiled too, because that’s a precaution he has adopted into his daily routine of self-care after one of the dwarves was so thoughtful as to leave him a book with the ominous title “Conduct of the Royal Paramour” on his bed. (He suspects Ori to have been the culprit) And he’s studied the chapter about due preparations quite thoroughly.

Thorin’s eyes glow with fondness as he draws him even closer and kisses him again, with the same astonishing control, the same docile lips and loving tongue. And then, finally, he sinks into him, unbearably slow and unbearably good, and Bilbo gasps and moans and sighs with pleasure while his body is fluttering around the intrusion, muscles clamping down on it with avid greed, and he is full and fulfilled and happy. And still Thorin is gentle and unhurried, almost lazy in his movements. He thrusts deep though, careful to find just the right angle, and unfaltering in his pace.

He owns me, Bilbo thinks, hide and hair and body and soul, and he knows it. And he takes care of me. And then he thinks nothing anymore but _o yes, just like that, o goodness, o Thorin, o yesss._

He rides the constant flow of long strokes, the surf of his king’s own pleasure, the accurate pushes and diligent shoves that make the bliss spark and flare inside him, the friction so perfect, it lets his mind melt and his bones fade, he is but energy, condensed by Thorin’s passion. He is so high, the peak is barely noticeable, it comes merely as a different flavour of joy, and it seems to last forever, shudder upon shudder of delight, and Thorin holds him through it, until he too reaches his crisis and spills deep into Bilbo’s body.

__

They lean into each other afterwards; hobbit against dwarf against wall. Bilbo trying to catch his breath, his curls are sweat-damp and his limbs trembling with exhaustion, while Thorin seems rather unaffected, his breathing is even, his embrace steady. He appears to have found satisfaction though, a calmness of the mind. His eyes are closed, his features relaxed. He looks at peace.

Bilbo would stay like this forever, if he could, in the safety of his strong arms and the warmth of his coat, huddled against the mighty chest and the soft hair, smelling Thorin’s scent that still makes him all giddy and excited… But he knows this is his one chance, while the enchantment of the acorn and their lovemaking still lasts, and he plucks up his courage.

“Thorin”, he asks, “the… the Arkenstone, why is it so important?”

The dwarf appears unmoved by the question, but at the word, his cock, that’s still inside Bilbo, twitches a little, like a reflection of the terrible need he has for the stone, and Bilbo bites his lip not to moan at the sensation, with despair and exasperation and also rekindled lust. Apart from this involuntary reaction, Thorin still seems impassive though. Languidly he reaches up to stroke Bilbo’s hair, trail gently through the unruly curls, and tug a loose strand behind his pointy ear, before he answers.

“Whoever wields the Arkenstone is considered the rightful ruler of dwarrowkind, leader of the seven houses and king of all dwarf lords, heir to Durin the Deathless, first of our kind”, Thorin says without opening his eyes. He seems tired, so tired, and so calm. Perhaps Balin is wrong after all, Bilbo thinks. Perhaps if only I return to him what is rightfully his, the madness will cease and Smaug’s shadow will lose its hold on him.

“Thorin”, he begins. “Uh, I…”

But then Dawlin’s booming voice interrupts him. “Thorin”, he calls. “Survivors from Laketown, they're streaming into Dale. There's hundreds of them.”

And at once all softness is gone from Thorin’s face, replaced by the mask of cruel determination and seething anger, Bilbo has come to hate so much. He stands abruptly, shoving the hobbit from his lap, who almost falls to the floor. Only with difficulty he regains his balance and just when he’s about to feel relieved about it, he realises that he is, still, totally naked, and Dwalin has, again, caught them in the act. Or at least almost. He glares at the dwarf who has, after all, the good manners to avert his gaze, though not without a faint, amused quirk of his lips.

Full of indignation, Bilbo turns towards Thorin to wipe the trails of his own cum from the shiny chain mail, while their lord quickly laces his breeches and straightens his clothes. Bilbo wishes he could kiss him again, but the Thorin he loves so much has already vanished again.

__

O precious, kind-hearted Kíli who dares to speak up on behalf of the people of Laketown, Kíli who knows nothing of the compassion of Men or of their pity.

“Do not tell me what they have lost. I know well enough their hardship”, Thorin barks at him and repeats the words, he himself has heard once, awarded to him instead of help and shelter. _Those who have lived through dragon fires should rejoice. They have much to be grateful for._ It appears that the day has come when he can repay the treacherous Men of Esgaroth with their own coin.

There are other phrases he has yearned to use for over a century.

_I will not treat with any dwarf, while an armed host lies before my door._

_Your pleas do not sway me._

_Be gone ere our arrows fly._

But Bilbo knows nothing of this; as he takes in Thorin’s words, all he hears is spite and enmity and warmongering; so he tries – again – to plead and reason, and again he fails. Thorin looks at him, with these last shreds of tenderness he has reserved for him and him alone, and refuses to listen, to even take him seriously.

“It does not concern you”, he says, as if Bilbo is but a pet in his household, as if he is not bound by his honour and word just as much as any dwarf. And a plan begins to take shape in the hobbit’s mind, a scheme to end this conflict without blood-shed and death.

Bilbo tries his luck one last time, when Thorin calls for him and presents him – under the curious and somewhat surprised eyes of the company – with a silver coat of mail, pretty like jewellery, light as linnen and apparently hard as stone itself. Bilbo cares little about the gift, cares not to ask whose it was, cares not about its value nor worth, he still can’t believe they’re about to go into battle. What he cares about is Thorin’s thriving paranoia, his refusal to be true to his word. But the proud dwarf-king is not to be convinced, not even by him. Again he belittles the hobbit’s efforts, trivialises his honour, he has become too entangled in his web of suspicions and delusions, to see reason anymore. And when Bilbo finally recognises the dragon-hiss in his voice, he knows he has lost. It nearly breaks his heart to hear Smaug’s words fall from Thorin’s lips.

_This gold is ours. And ours alone. By my life I will not part with a single coin. Not one piece of it._

And yet these words give him the resolve he still needed. The strength to betray his love and his loyalty, to be as false as Thorin suspects one of his faithful companions to be. There is something he can still do, and even though the price is high, he is willing to pay it. What is Thorin’s love compared to his life? If he must sacrifice his own happiness, he shall do it, Bilbo thinks and he steels himself – against the heartache and crippling sensation of loss – and his fingers close tight around the symbol of hope he has in his pocket, that small humble acorn.

 

__

tbc


	5. In The Halls Of The Mountain King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fever shines in the king’s halls, the diseased light of Thór’s hoard: gold like avalanches, coins like blind mirrors.
> 
> Dragon sickness.  
> Mithril kink.  
> Possessive!Thorin.  
> dubcon-moments.  
> A bit of Thranduil-POV.  
> Bilbo is a lot like Jon Snow in this chapter. (He knows nuthin'!)  
> Heartbreak.  
> Battle.  
> Violence.  
> More heartbreak.  
> Thorin is not yet dead.  
> (But Fíli, o Fíli - I do hate myself, and it wasn't even my idea!)

There were times, when Bilbo would have marvelled at the transformation of his companions. How quickly, how thoroughly they’ve shed their lowliness for long lost splendour. They are no longer the merry, good-natured fellows, who loved to sing and drink and eat, the plain tinkers and humble toymakers, the merchants and blacksmiths he used to travel with. As they march past, in their heavy armour and their heavy boots, they are glorious like the warriors of old, fierce, noble dwarves, just as fearsome in arms, as one would expect of Thorin’s kin. But Bilbo pays them no heed, there are bigger things at hand, things he cannot – as of yet – wrap his mind around. A plan that means cutting all bonds, that means high treason, but also in the end may save their lives. So he stares past them, unseeing, and thinks about what he must do and it feels as if his heart was crushed under their feet stomping into battle.

But Bilbo’s mind is – in that regard – a sturdy thing, unwilling to break in despair, when it can also bend a little, just a bit, to shed another light on things. And without much intention on his part it begins to spin a yarn, to invent a story, a delusion of rightfulness, of hope. Is he not, after all, a clue-finder and riddle-maker, clever and smart, cunning and nimble-witted? Perhaps there is still reason to believe in a happy ending…  
And thus, when the last of the dwarves has passed, he sets out to follow them, almost consoled, without thinking, even if their fight is not his, nor is their fate.

But Thorin calls him back – his own name a thunder in the halls of Erebor.

“Yes?” Bilbo answers. It feels a bit like waking from a deep slumber and at the same time as if he’s fast asleep: All calm shatters, replaced by cold dread, and somehow his skin crawls with foreboding. 

“I am not done with you”, Thorin snarls and there is still some of the serpent’s madness in his voice, and the glitter of greed in his eyes.

He… he cannot know anything, Bilbo tells himself for the thousandth time but it does naught to dissolve the tension in his belly. On the contrary, it makes him all the queasier.  
He waits for Thorin to move, and he does not have to wait long, for the dwarf-king grasps his upper arm with merciless strength and drags him away, down into the bowels of the mountain.

Fever shines in the king’s halls, the diseased light of Thór’s hoard: gold like avalanches, coins like blind mirrors. No wonder he cannot see anymore, Bilbo thinks, this is too much, it is like staring into the sun till your eyes burn and blister.

He stumbles as Thorin not only abruptly lets go of his arm but positively shoves him forwards, so coins shower from his feet and he has difficulties to regain his footing. He wants to say something in protest of this rough treatment but his tongue – the tongue that tried to beguile a dragon – does not obey. So he settles for glaring his accusation at the dwarf-king, who, however, does not even seem to notice his contempt. He looks at him as if he were the latest addition to his treasure (and perhaps he is) and his eyes glow like coals, keen and hot, and when he tells him to strip, there is nothing of the loving curiosity in his tone, nor any kind of warmth in his face.

“H…here?” Bilbo stutters. 

“I think I made myself perfectly clear”, Thorin says with a hardness that allows for no resistance, and Bilbo, who feels a dull pang of anxiousness in his chest, complies without further ado, taking off piece after piece of his clothing, quick, pragmatic, with as little enticement as possible, until he is completely and utterly naked. He shivers, yet not with cold – the hoard still houses enough of the dragon-warmth to be sweltering like a summer’s day – but with unease. Thorin can be harsh sometimes and wrathful, even towards those he holds dearest, but when it comes to love-making he has always been gentle, or at least considerate. Never has he looked at him like this, with the expression of a master who appraises his slave, with the same avarice as if looking at a cold piece of metal or a lifeless gem. Thorin owns him, of course he does, has owned him since he claimed him that night at Beorn’s house, but till now it has been a loving, tender kind of ownership. One he completely and willingly agreed to. Or so Bilbo told himself.

It’s not that there haven’t been moments in which Thorin’s darker side made itself known. _Remember that night in Mirkwood_ , Bilbo’s mind whispers, _you wore the marks for days…_ And: _Hush_ , whispers that self-same mind, _don’t you dare dwell on it!_

The hobbit’s hands move to his arms, rubbing, trying to wipe the goose bumps from his flesh, but to no avail. As soon as the soothing touch of his palms leaves a spot, the skin begins to tingle again under Thorin’s insistent stare. Bilbo grows more and more uncomfortable under the hungry eyes roaming his body, which in the months of wandering has become lithe and lissom, nearly delicate for a hobbit.

“Now what?”, he asks defiantly.

“Touch yourself.” It is barely more than a whisper yet in Bilbo’s ears it sounds like growling thunder and he trembles even more.

“I _am_ touching myself.” The answer has slipped past his lips before he can stop himself. He knows of course that rubbing gooseflesh off his arm is hardly what Thorin had in mind, but all of a sudden he feels spiteful. Whatever the dwarfs thinks him to be – he is not a toy or a mere tool for his pleasure, he is a living, breathing person, is he not?

Thorin tilts his head in what could have been an indulgent fashion, were it not for the faint sneer he wears. He needs not say anything, Bilbo can read the ridicule from his features and by the gods, he does know how silly it is to try to resist, and still he cannot help himself. He stares back with all the brazenness he can muster.

“So do you deny my demand?”, Thorin inquires after what feels like half an eternity, dark eyes aglow with an unhealthy passion.

“No… it’s not that… I…”

Thorin just raises an eyebrow and Bilbo’s mind races. He is sure, that Thorin will let him take his leave, if he only asked. And then again he is not so certain – the gold does strange things to the dwarf; he seems to become more and more of a wicked reflection of himself. But now that Bilbo is listening to the thrum of his heart, he realises that he does not even want to leave, that he still desires him – despite, or even because of his wickedness. The dwarf’s sinful hunger is stirring something, a darkness that might be Bilbo’s own affliction with dragon sickness, the peculiar pride of being wanted and being owned. Thorin’s gaze conjures up sparks on the skin and tingles in the flesh. And without even meaning to, his hands follow those sensations, trace them over the tenderness of his nipples (pinching them a little too hard to be exactly comfortable), the hollow plain of his stomach (the rake of his nails feels wonderful on the heated flesh), and further down – and he sees Thorin’s lips open in avarice and he drinks in the awed expression on his face, as his hands close around his stiff cock, with the simple skilfulness of knowing his own body.

Thorin allows him the caress for a while, with this ever growing display of hunger, and Bilbo revels in his gaze and appreciation. (And at the same time he hates how eagerly his body betrays him, how it does not care for his resolutions nor plans and how easily it tips the fragile balance of his mind. Yet somehow this conflict makes their play all the more exciting.)

“Wait”, Thorin says at last – his voice could stop time – and Bilbo pauses at once to wait for his king’s command.

“Put on your chain mail.”

“What?” Bilbo cannot see how this makes sense at this stage of their game, but another glare dissolves all objections and obediently he slips into the shirt of mithril – and gasps at the silver coolness of it. It is too exciting, how it runs all smooth like water over his naked skin, pressing, teasing against tense nipples and tight flesh.

And then, suddenly, Thorin is upon him, rough fingers grasping a handful of his hair and pulling his head backwards, and he is tasting the length of his throat with utter abandon. The trail of Thorin’s tongue is searing against the vulnerable skin, chasing the chill of the armour down his spine, where it threads into the keen tug of desire that burns in his loins. 

_Take me – take me – take me_ , his body sings. _Taste me. Use me. Fuck me._

The coins dig into his back as Thorin pushes him down, but he does not care, nor does he care about the ragged edges of dwarven armour that grate against his sensitive flesh, that bore into him with Thorin’s every move. He is caught between gold and dwarf, both equally unrelenting, and nothing could feel as good as this – Bilbo whimpers it into the vastness of the halls, a choked praise, that spurs Thorin on and on, and he sucks and bites at Bilbo’s neck as much as his chain mail allows and when he finally sheds his armour and clothes, Bilbo is already panting with need. So much he feels dizzy and drunk on the constant flow of sensations, the weight of hot muscle, the might of powerful arms, the slight scratch of hair.

He is opened with impatient hands, spread for Thorin’s touch, for Thorin’s cock but then the dwarf’s fingers press only into his thighs, cruel and lustful, nowhere else and the igniting pains seems almost to undo him, he is so hard and wanton, he may not need anything else. Yet still his hips try to buck upwards, against the iron grip of Thorin’s hands, but perhaps he only wants more of the exquisite agony that sparks from under the dwarven nails.

The dwarf is unfazed by Bilbo’s writhing beneath him, he just looks at him with this strange glint in his eyes. “Beautiful”, he whispers, voice husky and rough, and Bilbo is not quite sure whether he talks about the armour or about himself. But he does not wonder long, as the dwarf-king continues: “Once Erebor is restored, I will have bands and chains made for you, mithril-wrought and set with white stones, and I shall adorn you with them as the insignia of my claim and I will use them to splay you open upon my bed--“ At this his fingers tighten even more on his tender flesh, so brutally they are bound to bruise, but all that Bilbo feels is their touch. Sensations of pleasure and pain have already begun to blur, and he is close, so close his cock is achingly hard and leaking. “--spread you further than I’m spreading you now--”, Thorin hisses, “--for my eyes and my hands and my cock, to do with you as I will. And you shall beg for my touch.”

And Bilbo can see is before his mind’s eye, the sparkling bonds that pretend to be jewellery, he also sees Thorin, wearing his crown and little else, leaning over him with the lewd glister in his gaze, the hungry expression on his face, and he feels how desperately he would want to drag him down into a kiss, but his hands are bound, only now they are not and he reaches up to bury them in Thorin’s mane and yanks hard. The dwarf snarls, but doesn’t budge an inch, he just stares at him, face unreadable, and Bilbo wonders if now he should be really afraid, but then Thorin’s lip twist into an odd smile. “So impatient, my little hobbit, you would try to coerce your king?”

There lies a tacit threat in these words that makes Bilbo shiver, but it also steels his resolve and he tightens his grip on Thorin’s hair and pulls, teeth bared, because _yes, he would_ , and Thorin chuckles darkly and lets himself be dragged down against the hobbit’s hungry mouth, who gives his best to convince the dwarf that he is not at all lovely and tame. And it takes not long until Bilbo is repaid in kind.

The dwarven lips are hard and demanding against his, and Bilbo keens, high and needy, because now he really feels like starving and he is so brave as to kiss Thorin back every bit as ferocious as he himself is kissed and his breath comes short and then he begs to be fucked and Thorin obliges and he is breached and stretched and filled and oh it’s so good, all words fail him…

And still Thorin whispers more filthy promises into his ear, because that’s what they are, avowals of sweeter punishments and pledges of harsher usage and prospects of further defilement, until Bilbo’s mind is reeling, desire liquid, coursing through his too-small body, a feeling like ripping at the seams.

__

Bilbo never knows the ring saved his life (again) as he scrambles down the rampart – falls more than he climbs actually – oblivious that its magic is hiding him from even the keenest of elven eyes and thereby the swift swoosh and muffled thump of an arrow to the chest. Without the ring, he would already be tumbling down like a broken doll, blood welling up from his lungs with every vain draw of breath, the taste of copper and salt the last thing his dimming mind registers. Oh, there are so many things the little hobbit knows nothing about.

Yet ignorance is not only bliss, as the saying goes, but also the mother of all success. (Forget about failure!)

Something Bilbo never realises either is how lucky he is that of all the people in Dale he runs into Gandalf first, not – for example – a wrathful Elvenking whose contempt he might foolishly mistake for his usual arrogance. Even when they are face to face – and Bilbo does remember how in the Halls of Greenwood, he has glimpsed what lies behind the porcelain mask of impassivity – he still does not understand that he has given offence beyond anything a king could condone and how Thranduil has all reason to wish him ill: he suspects the hobbit to be in on his secrets, for he _knows_ he stole the prison key from his negligent guards. Without being noticed, which is so very unlikely, it seems only natural to assume that there were other things he saw and heard, things Thranduil would not share with anyone, least of all a dwarfish spy.

If Bilbo had only found the Elvenking in Dale, who knows how he would have ended, what fashion Thranduil would have chosen to silence him. Yet as matters stand, he is in the wizard’s good graces, and since Thranduil is too smart to challenge the Grey Pilgrim, he can do nothing but bide his time.

So this is the sly creature who has won the favour of Thorin Oakenshield, the great Elvenking thinks as he observes his appearance with mild interest. He is surprisingly comely. Not exactly pretty by elven standards, nor well-built in terms of the dwarves, but quite cute with his untamed curls and jaunty nose and bright eyes. Though this won’t be the only reason why the dwarf favours him. He’s heard the rumours the ravens carry. Bilbo Silvertongue, they’ve begun to call him on the quiet, luck-wearer, barrel-rider, snake-charmer… a halfling of many talents it seems. The latest of which would be a venture into diplomacy. 

Nonetheless Thranduil barely trusts his eyes when Bilbo presents him the Arkenstone as a pledge for their negotiations. It is a bold move, he must grant him that, for the hobbit lies – plainly and shamelessly – about his presumed claim on the jewel as his part of the treasure, pretends he actually believes he has any right to it, when everyone in the tent knows there is no way on earth this could be true. It is after all the King’s jewel, the symbol of dwarven ruler ship. So does he truly belie himself? He appears not that stupid, brazen perhaps, arrogant to assume he can gamble this high without loosing, without falling from grace, without fearing for his miserable life even, for surely Thorin will put him to death once he finds out about this treason…

It is only then that it sinks in, that Thranduil understands fully the source of Bilbo’s confidence; he takes in the kiss-swollen lips and the tangled hair and the traces of greedy fingers on his skin, the marks of teeth, now so very obvious that he knows what to look for, and the sight kindles a strange and fierce burning in his belly.

To be jealous of a halfling, of a toy to Thorin of Erebor - I must be mad, Thranduil thinks although he cannot suppress a slight twitch in his fingers, as if they longed to break the dwarf’s plaything, as if such cruelty was not too queer a notion for a king of the elves. Is he not supposed to be wise and righteous and just? If anything should he not feel sorry for Bilbo? For him who may not yet understand the gravity of his doings, who cannot see how dearly it will cost him. Thranduil knows the stubbornness of dwarves, and also their lust for power and gold, and he doubts that Thorin will find it in him to forgive his burglar. No matter how strong his _desire_ for this hobbit might be, it will pale against his greed for other things.

“Thorin values this stone above all else”, Bilbo says – and Thranduil looks for a fundamental understanding of these words in the halfling’s brown eyes, but he sees none, and he feels his heart soften a bit, for who would not be touched by such naïve, unquestioning love?

__

Bilbo does not sleep that night, nor does he touch the steaming portion of hot, spicy stew Alfrid grudgingly hands him. Although the hunger growls in his stomach, he cannot bear the idea of eating. He just holds the bowl in his hands and waits for it to thaw his frozen fingers and thinks about Gandalf’s words. _Leave on the morrow, get as far away as possible_ – it seems ludicrous. How could he even consider leaving now? Turning away and never knowing whether his scheme really worked? He imagines himself in Bag End, pacing his study, his living room, even the kitchen like a prison cell, and realises that he can hardly picture himself there anyway. It would be so small and narrow and … lonely.

 _I've grown very fond of them and I would save them if I can.  
_ Just like they saved me, he thinks, from a life of boredom and solitude and futility. He can’t possibly leave them. He can’t leave Thorin.

The memory of his touch still lingers on Bilbo’s skin, every moment he is away from him eats at his bones, hurts in his sinew and muscle, it’s like an addiction raving in his very blood. Perhaps that’s why he can’t think clearly? Should he really be _afraid_ of Thorin? He knows the awe and anxiousness and admiration that befall him in his presence, but fear? How can he possibly believe his lover would do him harm? Will he not see reason once he understands that he, Bilbo, has averted a war and prevented pointless bloodshed? By the love of Eru, he hopes he will, for he can’t even think the alternative. 

He lies awake in his bed and thinks and thinks and tries to stop thinking but for vain and when at last the first signs of light are discernable to the east, he makes his choice.

__

He could not say what he expected, but he has never dreamt of the glacier-cold in Thorin’s eyes, never imagined the stone-hardness of his face. _It is me_ , he wants to scream, _your burglar, your hobbit, your paramour_ , and a thousand elves would hear it and a dozen dwarves too, but not him, for he is deaf and blind and utterly senseless, and Bilbo feels something breaking inside and crumbling and only then does he understand - Gandalf’s warning and Thranduil’s pity and the enormity of his sacrifice, and he is too numb to weep, too numb to feel anything anymore.

__

Bilbo knew nothing of war but what he read in books, and it always seemed such noble and just a cause the heroes fought for; but now that its iron taste descends on the mountain, that he senses the utter madness of battle, born out of stubbornness and greed, he fails to recognise any glory in it. All it does is fill him with terror.

The tension is worst, it turns out. The blood-curdling fear, hardly kept at bay by battle-cries and yelled encouragements, is holding them in its gruesome grasp – men and elves alike, though Bilbo can say nothing about the dwarves facing them, and suddenly he is even glad Thorin is not among them, because he could not bear the thought of him coming to harm, despite his fury and wrath.

It all changes when the orcs attack. The paralysis shatters like sheets of ice and the dread is lifted, and as the warriors around him move to charge, an unknown resolve begins to pound in Bilbo’s ears. His right hand clutches hard around Sting’s hilt, and his mind is drawn from ominous fears to the immediate present, there is no room for worries anymore, only for the next step, the next duck, the next blow, thrust and parry.

The frenzy lasts through the battle of Dale, through the screams and blood and scenes of murder and death and cruelty, the view of slashed open bodies, torn limbs and glassy eyed-stares. Bilbo is disconnected from the horror, enraptured by shock – he moves through the slaughter as if walking through a nightmare. A woman looks at him, hands outstretched in a pleading manner, pale as Death who’s come to claim her, he can already see the void in her gaze, she says something, begs, but his heart is gem-like, unstirred, unstirring. _I cannot help you_ , he hears himself say. And the next victim of war he does not even answer anymore, and the one after that he does not even _see_.

Survival comes at a price, and there will be a time, he’ll realise its cost, but for now such considerations are beyond the simple, tool-like working of his mind and body, there is no room for remorse or reflection, as he shoves his faithful blade into the flesh of foes, and the steel of Gondolin cuts through orcish armour like a knife through butter, and it appears, it does take that much to turn a hobbit into a warrior.

He is changed, at least for the moment. When Thorin at last rallies the dwarves – there is no fear, no anguish in his chest, only the swell of pride. The dwarf-king is going to cut off the snake’s head; not even for a heartbeat does Bilbo doubt the prophecy lying in Gandalf’s words, and he does not worry until the elves wake him from his stupor of killing.

A second army sweeping in from the north, closing in on the Ravenhill… it achieves what hours of fighting has not, knocking the breath from his breast, replacing it with that very-same awful anticipation of the worst, and without thinking he puts on the ring and he runs.

Racing fate, he is lucky once more. He finds Thorin and Dwalin well and unscathed as he slips from the gloom, stumbles from it, the air burning in his lungs, there might still be time to escape. If only they hear him out. For a moment he still dreads Thorin’s anger, but the expression on his face tells him there is no need – he can see the sickness has lifted, sees _his_ Thorin and were it not for the threat he would hug him and kiss him and cry his relief into the broad chest, but the battle is not yet won, mortal danger still hangs over them; and then it goes so fast, Bilbo can barely keep up. _Trap_ , Thorin croaks, and understanding hits them, just as from the vile shadows the Defiler appears, dragging a dwarf with him, a blonde, blithe, brave dwarf, and Bilbo’s mind goes blank, he just stares unseeing, unwilling to believe. _Go!_ Fíli screams. _Run!_ And then steel slides into him, almost gentle, and he falls and Bilbo’s heart stops in denial.

There is only fog around him, white like winter-death, cold, freezing; nothing anymore, no fear, no dread, no feeling at all. How? How can this have happened? How can it be true? _how-how-how_ it hammers in his head, and stupidly he draws his sword, as if it helped any, and he staggers about, blindly, numbly, until – after what seems an age of confusion – rage boils up from the pits of his soul, a fierce and bitter spite, refusal to be defeated, refusal to surrender and die.

And died he would have, had not the gods had pity on him, child of the kindly west, and had him simply knocked unconscious, embraced by merciful oblivion.

Bilbo only comes to, when the eagles already swarm the sky and everything is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys, thanks for reading my little smut-fest of free associations and drabble-like paragraphs.  
> I feel a lot like I might be jumping ship just now - the lure of Thorinduil becomes irresistable, I don't now how long I can withstand it anymore. 
> 
> Thanks to [Jaq](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jaqueline_nutweasel) for guiding me through this.


	6. The Road Not Taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the first (and hopefully last) AU-chapter of the story.  
> It starts with the moment Bilbo wakes at the end of the battle - Thorin lives, Kíli and Fíli are dead.
> 
> Warnings/Info:  
> Character deaths, mourning, Bottom!Thorin (to round things up), heartbreak, implications of an abusive relationship, yada yada
> 
> This is not exactly a happy ending.

Somehow Bilbo _knows_ of the awful closeness of death as he slumps to his knees beside Thorin. Not just because its reek is all over the place, steaming up from the battlefield, the rust-warmth of life running out of torn bodies, but also because he can feel it vibrating around the dwarf, as if he is but a mirage, a dream lingering. And he clutches his hand and he cries inconsolably, even before the message reaches them, that Kíli has fallen too, slain by Bolg, foul spawn of Azog the Defiler. 

“I shall live”, Thorin says, “Do not weep for me, Bilbo, save your tears for the dead and the dying.” But Bilbo can’t help it, he feels like a mere blink away, he is crying over a lifeless body, and he is convinced that, if only he squinted hard enough, he could actually see it. 

It does not take long for the others to find them. One by one the appear at their side, their faithful companions, until at last only two are missing, two who shall never again join their ranks, and it is Dwalin who bears the bad tidings, Dwalin, gruff, good-natured giant of a dwarf, who tells them with watering eyes and breaking voice of Fíli's and Kíli’s death.

Thorin’s face is like stone, hard, unmoved, when he hears the news that Kíli has fallen, too. “I need to see them”, he says, voice flat and toneless, and with iron determination he forces his battered limbs to move, waiving every offer of assistance. Slowly, labouriously he gets to his feet and with effort carries himself over the frozen river to the stair-girdled platform where they’ve laid out the bodies of his sister-sons.

They lie side by side, their hair mingling like shadow and light, peaceful in death, as if they were only sleeping. As if any moment they would wake, the same cheerful, mischievous lads everyone loved so much. 

At the sight, Thorin’s legs seem to give in and all self-control shatters as he drops down before his nephews and he cries, in silent shuddering sobs – heedless of the red-haired elf-woman who sits beside Kíli, irrespective of the prying eyes of his subjects. The mighty Thorin Oakenshield stripped of his haughtiness and dispassion, overwhelmed by grief. 

It is utterly heart-breaking to see him like this, and Bilbo wants to hurry to his side, console him in this hour of need, but Balin catches his sleeve to stop him and shakes his white head gravely. “Leave him be”, he says, and Bilbo opens his mouth in protest and closes it again without a word, realising that it would be useless to argue. These may be the customs of the dwarves that demand respect for their leader’s mourning, and they will not allow him to disregard these rules, he can see it quite clearly in Balin’s eyes.

The old dwarf is gentle but decisive as he gives out instructions, small tasks to fulfil to take their minds of the sadness: bring word to Dáin, get fire-wood, fetch blankets for their king, and Bilbo is grateful that at least he is permitted to stay, cowering at the side lines, struggling against bone-deep weariness and the merciless pull of grief, threatening to drag him down into darkness. But – above all – he is watching. Bearing witness to history, as he tells himself, memorising these dreadful moments for times to come, when they will be named the founding myth of Thorin's rule.

The mist is thickening around them while Thorin holds vigil over his sister-sons. It spreads upon the hill like a burial shroud, smothering, choking as poisonous vapours, and Bilbo gasps for breath with the desperation of drowning. The cold air stings like needle-pricks in his lungs, every pant for air painful, his chest raw with hurt and unshed tears and stifled sobs.  
He does not even notice that he is shaking like a leaf, until Nori puts a heavy dwarven coat around his shoulders and pushes him tenderly towards the lit fire. 

And night falls over the Ravenhill, and in the distance the clamour of war subsides, and the silence that follows is even more terrible. Death walks over the battlefield, saviour of the hurt and wounded, he brings deliverance from the pain. The fallen are summoned, their souls taken from this plane and carried to Mandos’ realm, to the Halls of Awaiting. While to them, their end is salvation, a release, merely another journey, to those who must stay behind, the parting is brutal and cruel. They feel the passing of their friends and loved ones like a gaping wound;  
their loss is palpable, as if the world was riddled with holes where only moments ago their spirits had dwelt. The sheer air is torn to shreds, reality slashed to ribbons. It is, in the beginning, a shock, a violent hollowness, raging with unappeasable fury, until the pain fades into a stupor, a silent refusal of the truth, that is cold, oh so cold, much like the air that swirls around them.

And so Thorin bids his nephews farewell, a quiet good-bye that is as much prayer as it is a plea for forgiveness, and for hours he does not move but remains kneeling on the hard stone, an act of penance, until he himself has grown still as rock, until there are no more tears in his eyes or sobs in his breast, no more rage or anger. 

And his companions wait with him, a tacit guard at their post, watching over their king for the first of many nights to come. They place braziers around him, beacons in fog and darkness, that cast their flickering light over him like a spell of protection and a bane of the outreaching frost. And yet their king does not stir. They offer him cushions and furs, food, drink, medicine, but he does not even seem to acknowledge their presence. He just stares into nothingness, consumed by grief, numb and hurting and raw, for such is the agony of mourning. 

__

Finally a new morning dawns upon the Lonely Mountain, a clear autumn day, cold but sun-lit, mocking in its radiance the dim gloomy sorrow clouding their minds. The sun slips over the horizon almost pudently, as if ashamed of its brightness, and when it casts its timid light on the mourners, Thorin rises, as if thawed from his frozen state by these first, thin beams, slow and labourious, and wordlessly he beckons them to follow, and so they climb down the hill, a small solemn procession of eleven dwarves, a hobbit and an elf, bringing with them the fallen princes, to return them to their true home.

Bilbo who is so exhausted, he feels like sleep-walking, only trudges along, numb and dazed and too tired to feel, to think anything. The few shreds of strength he has left he needs for not seeing the aftermath of the battle, the blood-soaked soil, the bodies, the pain. He does not look, neither left nor right, but keeps his eyes fixed on the mountain, on the proud, crumbling gates of Erebor.

A respectful murmur welcomes the victorious king as he enters his kingdom. His subjects, the faithful Sigin-tarâg of the Iron Hills, greet him with grief-dulled gladness and some sort of strange awe. Glory precedes the son of Thráin, heir to Durin whom they called the Deathless. Their forebear's tenacity must run in his veins they whisper when he passes, for twice he faced the Pale Orc and twice he prevailed. Against all odds he is unvanquished, the beggar-prince who expelled the dragon and retook his homeland, now the ruler of dwarvendom. His heroism at Azalnulbizar had never been entirely forgotten, but over time it has faded, like all great feats that are not escorted by triumph. Yet on this day, his battle-fame is renewed

But at what price? At what terrible a price...

Bilbo tries not to ponder on it any more, attempts to stop thinking just like he has decided not to see the ground swimming with red, not to smell the awful stench and not to hear the fading wails. He just keeps to his companions and tries not to attract too much attention.

It is quite obvious that there are arrangements to be made, talks to be held – Dáin and his men have requests and appeals and simple questions, but one glance at Thorin's state tells them this is not the time. “The king will answer to your queries, once he has rested”, Balin explains, slipping into his role of royal advisor like into a glove made for him. “For now, perhaps Glóin could be of assistance to you, Lord Dáin? I myself would return shortly to address your needs, once I've escorted the king to his quarters.”

Exceptionally polite words by dwarvish standards, Bilbo notes in his fatigue-dazzled mind, but Dáin only nods, nearly gracefully, a gesture no less ill-suited for the blunt-mannered dwarf-lord, but no one seems to bother, and the procession commences – without Glóin and a few others who stay behind. As if all of them miraculously knew where their place was, as if only he was lost, Bilbo muses. Where is the elf-woman, he wonders, he can't remember seeing her leave, but then, what does he remember. Everything seems so unreal and blurred.

It is then, that Dwalin, gently but firmly, takes him by the arm and steers him along, further down the stone-corridors snaking into the mountain, a strong, warm hand that radiates reassurance. And Bilbo just looks at him, at the grim but not unfriendly expression on the huge dwarf's face, and he decides against speaking up, no matter how many questions burn on his tongue. The dwarves seem to know what to do and there is solace in that realisation. Their way leads them to the royal quarters and even as Bilbo hesitates, Dwalin does not but pushes him inside after the others, steps in himself and closes the door behind them.

__

“The hobbit first”, Thorin growls, but they outright refuse him.  
“With all due respect”, Balin says, and Oin only nods in agreement, and Dwalin crosses his arms to underline his determination, and so Thorin gives in, he is their king after all and bound by their needs and his duty.

Bilbo knows the procedure, has witnessed it before. The undressing. The lavation. The worship of the powerful, battered body, the ritual of probing fingers and careful touches. They’ve come a far way from that moment on the Carrock; he is no less awed by the magnificence of Thorin's physique now than he was then, but certainly less ashamed of his naked form. He has learned it by heart since the day he’s first laid eyes on him. He knows every patch of pelt, every ridge of muscle. What he has not, could not have, anticipated it is the miserable state of him, the view of bruises and cuts and the vivid, virulent colour of fresh blood. By Mahal, Thorin looks terrible, like broken beyond repair. 

Bilbo remembers the moment, he fell down on his knees beside him, so utterly convinced, that everything was over, and now that he sees the havoc wreaked on his body, it seems all the more like a miracle that he is still alive, and again he feels a treacherous sob swell in his breast. But the dwarf still breathes, still bleeds, red and hot through the white linen, Óin used to dress the wounds. 

“Now Bilbo”, Thorin demands again when Óin finally appears satisfied with his work, and this time they obey.

It is a strange thing to be washed by other hands than his own, but he is too tired to protest; they'll find out soon enough that he is whole and unscathed, flesh unmarred by war. The shame of it is nothing the soft cloth will wipe away; it's the kind of filth that sticks, that you cannot get rid off even when scrubbing your skin raw. He lives. How can he live when so many are dead? 

But no one comments. They only look at him with the fondness they have for rare jewels and precious metal, and Óin even ruffles his hair when he is sufficiently convinced, that the hobbit is unmaimed.

__

“Don’t go”, Thorin says when the others are leaving, and it as much of a request, as he has ever heard him utter, and yet for Bilbo it works like a binding spell. The words have him fettered to the room before he could even begin to develop a will of his own. 

The dwarf-king beckons him closer, with an almost fatigued wave of his hand and Bilbo follows the call with the usual compliance though – to his surprise – not his usual eagerness. Perhaps it is still their quarrel that has him gripped to the marrow, perhaps he is only tired. 

The royal bed is too large and too soft after months of bedrolls spread over hard ground; Bilbo feels lost as he scrambles onto the mattress. 

Not long ago he would have claimed to be at home, where ever he can be with Thorin, but these tall walls and high ceilings – they seem alien and hostile, too narrow and yet too vast. The chambers of a high-king are too solemn a place for a hobbit who is used to the comfort of wood-clad tunnels and warm, richly-furnished rooms. At least he would have hoped for the solace of darkness, a night housed by rock to embrace them with an offer of sleep. But through long air shafts cut into the stone, there is actually a fair amount of daylight filtering into the room. Only where outside it is scornfully bright and sunny, here it seems grey as ash, as if soiled with dust and dragon-stink. 

“Come here”, Thorin says, sleepy, gruff voice, and Bilbo crawls closer and snuggles up to his side, under the heavy furs. At least this is familiar, and he could have forgotten all about the surroundings, if not Thorin – who always exudes this furnace heat – were not cold as stone, as if the grief has frozen him to the bone.

They lie there, side by side, the great warrior, sprawled over the cushions, and his burglar curled up against him. And Bilbo imagines to be warm, like after a hot bath, boiling, and how this warmth would seep into Thorin’s chilled limbs and melt the cold from him. And thus he falls asleep.

His sleep is palsy-deep and nightmare-shaken at once, a maelstrom of oblivion and terror sucking at his mind.

He wakes hours later to the last light of the day and a sharp-blue glint in the beginning twilight. Thorin stares into nothingness, his eyes like eerie coals and for the first time Bilbo wonders about dwarven night-sight. Do they see like cats in the dark? Would their eyes shine in the absolute blackness of a deep mine? 

He looks closer and sees the wet streaks on Thorin's cheeks, the salty trails of tears, and his heart clenches. He would never have thought to see him like this, vulnerable, hurt beyond the wounds of his body, as if breaking, crumbling beneath the tips of his fingers. He who is supposed to be strong and invincible and hard as stone, who is to care for him, protect him... protect them all. 

And Bilbo understands the terrible burden, the awful weight on Thorin's shoulders, the gravity of his failure, and he does the only thing that seems right – he turns towards him and closes his arms around him, hugs him with all the sincerity and all the affection his little heart harbours, and he feels how the barriers break and at last Thorin weeps for real, desperate sobs and woeful shudders, and Bilbo holds him through it and strokes the shaggy yet so soft hair, strokes the cheeks and nose and lips and beard, touches him with soothing, gentle, loving hands, until the anguish ebbs. 

And then he replaces his hands with his lips and kisses the dwarf all over his tear-stained face, until he meets his mouth, and their lips touch in hot salty wetness and he finds Thorin more pliant than ever before. Their kiss is tender, docile even, there is no greed in it, no urgency. For once Bilbo can feast on him like on a second breakfast, with appetite instead of hunger, appreciatively, languidly, as is the disposition of hobbits, and he takes the opportunity with utter relish. 

It feels wrong, if only a little, to make use of this weakness, but then Thorin's hands rise to quell the guilt, large, strong fingers so gentle in his curls, only loosely, signalling consent, and Bilbo's hands in turn tangle themselves in silky strands of hair, and he licks into that inviting mouth as if he owned it. Soft sweet strokes of tongue against tongue, and the sparkling giddiness of awakening arousal.

Thorin yields to his pleasure, the whole of his body responding, submitting to Bilbo's hands, as they slip beneath fabric, brazen, bold fingers on bruised flesh. And Thorin groans and leans into the touch, like he craves the pain sparking from it, and Bilbo cannot help but press harder, elicit more of this honey-dark sounds from his lover. 

The taste of control is dizzying, a thrill in itself, Bilbo can see it now, the last remains of dragon sickness, fractured reflection in the mirror of his mind, merely a notion of the all-devouring greed, and still it makes him kiss Thorin all the more fervently, makes his tongue plunge deeper and his fingers delve further.

The desire is liquid in his veins, a metallic throb of want and need, poisonous, golden, intoxicating, while his fingers seek for undamaged flesh and find so precious little. But Thorin does not seem to care for the torment his hands must cause, on the contrary, spurs him on with moans and with sighs and also words - “Don't stop”, he whispers against Bilbo's lips, “I want to feel, I want to feel you”, - and his cock is hard under the hobbit's probing touch, though still less searing than Bilbo is used to.

His fingers close around the swollen flesh – that now is all his, that twitches, eager and hungry and alive – and he realises that it makes all the difference, whether you worship or claim, and Bilbo who has never known the latter, revels in glory of owning this powerful, tamed body that arches into him.

He can almost feel the pull of his own hand, the slides of his palm along silken skin, and the longing for release burns in his belly, flares brighter with every stroke and every sweet moan falling from Thorin's lips. His own cock drags heavy against a muscular leg, leaving wet, treacherous trails, yet he does not dare to follow his instincts and rut against it. As if it would still feel shameful to use Thorin so. Or more than ever.

But then the dwarf whispers something, voice so low and breathless, Bilbo at first does not trust his ears, and only when Thorin repeats it, does it sink in.  
“Not like this... I want you to take me, Bilbo, fuck me, make me feel, make me forget.” 

And he feels his stomach bottom out and also the tug of keen interest in his loins, nerves and excitement and anticipation running together into that raging current.

He wants to prepare him, properly, just like Thorin had him prepared every single time, but the dwarf only growls with impatience, and soon Bilbo finds himself pushing against this tight ring of muscles with hardly more than some spit to ease the way. It is bound to hurt, but Thorin just clutches at his shoulders with the despair of a drowning man and tells him to go on, and he breaches him with more ease than he would have thought.

The air is brittle, his whole body on fire. Nerves crackle with tension like logs in the flames. The tightness around him is more intimate than he could have imagined, velvety dark, a vile hunger, the threat of imminent crisis.

“Breathe”, Thorin says, mild, candle-light fondness in his voice, and he does. And then he moves and it is bliss and ruin and Thorin's legs wrap around him, and pull him closer, and he pushes – deep and slow and thorough – into the welcoming body.

Thorin has grasped his own shaft, rough warrior hands gliding languidly, skilfully over the aroused length, up and down and up, a mesmerising view, and also one Bilbo of yet has not enjoyed. He tries to move in the same rhythm, eyes glued to the sight of the dwarf pleasuring himself, tries to copy the constant, confident strokes, while he marvels at the utter self-assurance and also the beauty of his features twisting in delightful distress.

Carefully he tries to discover the right spot, as he brushes in and out of the bliss that is Thorin, still focussing on his breath, still struggling for dominion over the devastating sensations. The absolute immediacy of pleasure is overpowering, but it is not his place to be overwhelmed. Not now, not yet. Not when he's still responsible for Thorin.

What a strange thought, to be responsible. He's never carried that burden, never was in charge of anything but himself. He is tenacious, yes, perhaps as stubborn as a dwarf sometimes, but he is no leader. However, the reflection helps to keep the climax at bay, prevent the spiraling lust from spinning beyond control. Persistently his hips rock against Thorin, into him, in what is nearly a lullaby-tune, the tides of his body steady.

And the dwarf indulges him for a while, moving with him in that water-like ebb and flow, until impatience prevails. 

“Harder”, Thorin commands him, and “More!”

And Bilbo drives into him, into the madness of pleasure, heedless of anything but his own satisfaction, oblivious to the pleasure and pain racking Thorin's body, only chasing after the golden track of completion, through shadows of moans and spectres of jerks, the flesh shivering, trembling, release at the edge of reason. 

His hands are almost cruel on Thorin's hipbones, fingers clawing deep, when he comes, and the dwarf follows him in an instant, the spill of seed like blood between them.

__

It is pitch-dark when Bilbo wakes again into hearth-warmed air and the lingering scent of hot food. He is buried under blankets and furs as if someone tried to built him a burrow, the curtains of the large four-poster are half-drawn for privacy.

Thorin stands with his back to him in front of the fireplace while Óin changes the dressing of his wounds and Balin talks to him in a hushed tone, a rush of subdued sentences, Bilbo can't quite make out. It must be about state business, concluding from the urgency of Balin's expression and the serious nods Thorin responds with. “Summon the council then”, he says when Óin is finished and shrugs back into his shirt. 

Dwalin who seems to have been standing just out of sight in the shadows, steps forward to help him with his tunic and the overcoat. Garments that are neither the convenient travel clothing of a dwarf lord nor the pretentious attire of a high king, but simple though not plain, select one could say, perfectly chosen for the occasion. Dwalin fastens the silver bracelets that come with the garb and puts several heavy rings on his fingers before Thorin shoos him away.  
“Enough with the finery. I'm no maid on her wedding day”, he growls. 

They have already turned to leave the room when Thorin pauses to glance over to the bed and sees Bilbo staring back at him.“I'll be right with you”, he says and shuts the door behind his advisors (for that is what they are now). 

“Apologies for waking you”, he mutters as he presses his lips into Bilbo's unruly curls, the drone of his voice again so much like Bilbo remembers, it makes his small hobbit-heart swell with affection. His hand is rough as he cups Bilbo's cheek and his smile as warm as the sun. “I have some urgent matters to attend. Don't wait up for me. There is some food on the table, it's not much but it will appease your hunger.” Another fond stroke of his face and then he is gone. It was, Bilbo will realise later, his last night with Thorin Oakenshield before he truly became the King under the Mountain.

__

Erebor changes at a tremendous pace in the weeks to come. The dwarves are flocking back to their homeland, the long forsaken halls once again fill with life. The fires burn again in the great furnaces and the air rings with the sound of hammers. Not a day passes without the arrival of another delegation, envoys of the Firebeards and Broadbeams, Ironfists and Stiffbeards, Blacklocks and Stonefoots, all of whom come to pay their respects to their high king. And slowly Bilbo begins to understand in full the position Thorin holds among his people. He told him once, he remembers, in that one blithesome acorn-hour, of the significance of the Arkenstone, of what he who wields it is to dwarvendom, but Bilbo could not grasp the meaning of his words then, and he has still difficulties to comprehend it now. What does it mean to be the supreme ruler of all dwarves? How can one possibly fathom its implications? Bilbo cannot wrap his mind around it. And so he observes and thinks and still arrives at no conclusion.

He sees Thorin talking to lords and ladies, common messengers and high-born envoys, Men, Elves and Dwarves, there does not seem to be a moment he is not surrounded by council members and advisors, and it feels as if he is gradually slipping away, changing into someone else, someone he was meant to be a very long time ago. 

It is not long until Bilbo feels like an intruder in Thorin's bed, presumptuous to stay there as if he had any claim over the king. His justifications to linger run thin, for the dwarf barely seems to sleep at all, and when he retires, it is usually long after Bilbo has fallen asleep, and he gets up hours before Bilbo wakes again. He hardly touches him anymore, and if he does, it never feels quite right. It is as if a shadow lay between them, a razor-thin veil of something unnamed and unnamable. 

After a few weeks, Bilbo asks for a room of his own, and it appears as if Thorin does not even notice his disappearance. He summons him every so often and Bilbo is – of course – still allowed to move about freely, and attend meetings and dinners and banquets, but he begins to feel more and more like a piece of furniture, an exchangeable part of the royal entourage. It will be better, he tells himself, the negligence is only due to the busy times of reconstruction and Thorin's new duties.

And so Bilbo waits and watches and without realising it, he becomes silent and even lonely. 

He spends hours wandering around – at first inside the mountain, journeys into the forges and solls over the growing market, then later, when the cruel grip of winter slowly loosens, also outside. He visits Dale, roams the vast meadows that surround the mountain and the hills that still fail to remind him of home.

If Thorin knew, he would not let him go out all by himself, of course. He would assign him a guard – which would ruin these hours of liberty, so Bilbo does not tell him. He does not tell him a great many things now, but it is not that Thorin would ask either. Sometimes he catches a glimpse of him as he oversees building or visits a newly opened workshop, and he notices how he steers clear of the treasure, how he only dresses in silver, how he still keeps his beard short and his expression sombre. He is a good king, and there is some solace in that.

Some day, it is spring already, Bilbo realises he has not spoken to anyone in two days. Not a single word. He has not even talked one of the company, which – now that he comes to think of it – is actually not that rare a circumstance. It's not that they ignore him on purpose, on the contrary, they try to include him as best as they can, introduce him to friends and family. But they are busy with their new tasks and duties. Balin serves as Thorin's right hand, Dwalin as the commander of army and guards, Orí is buried in paper work, … well everyone's got a full plate but him, who is more or less useless, who seems to be the mere mascot of the kingdom. It has its bright sides – people come to him for stories and tales, sometimes even a favour, but the thrill about being in demand as some sort of exotic witness to the course of events wears off rather quickly. And so the more dwarves come to the Mountain, the more the distance grows – inexorably, relentlessly – to his former companions. Bilbo feels that he does not belong, however hard he tries (if actually tries that hard, he is not sure anymore) and he catches himself thinking about Bag End more and more often.

One evening as he is like so often sitting by himself at dinner in the great hall, mooning over Thorin who is talking to some dwarves that arrived for Bard's coronation feast, Bofur joins him, settling next to him on the bench, shoulder to shoulder. For a while they remain quiet, observing the movements of the court, the babble and bustle, how everyone swarms like bees in a hive. It is Bofur who breaks the silence.

“He is not ours to keep”, he says quietly, wistfully and of a sudden realisation strikes Bilbo. His is a repeating story. He remembers his first perception of Bofur, how familiar he seemed to have been with Thorin. He was jealous then, well-aware of the cause of such intimacy, though later he forgot all about it. Such as those in favour so often forget the ones fallen from grace. He also thinks about the first encounter with Thorin and what he told him about promises and partnership.

“Kings are meant for their likes, intended to wed noble ladies and make them their queens”, Bofur continues. “It is not their fault, we have no place in their lives. It is just as it is.”

And Bilbo looks at him like into a mirror, as if he can sees his own reflection, all the longing, all the pain, all the unrequited love, and it breaks his heart – and that is the moment he makes his choice. This is not who he will become. He will not live here as a forgotten courtier and discarded paramour, pining for a dwarf he can never really have.

__

Thorin frowns, when he tells him. “Back to the Shire”, he echoes and Bilbo can't help but think of the day he threatened to throw him off the rampart. So this is how far we've come, he thinks. But what passes over his lips is a blatant lie: “Just to set my affairs in order”, he says, and even attempts a joke. “See after my books and my armchair.” He smiles while his fingers close around the acorn in his pocket as if it was a lifeline, he smiles so hard his mouth hurts, and when Thorin sighs and nods, a wave of relief washes over him.

It is so peculiar that once he had fumbled with the knot everything seems to unravel. He had not even realised how afraid he is of Thorin and his possessiveness until he decided to break up with him. And he can't even decide whether he exaggerates or not.

“If you must go, you shall not leave without a proper guard. I will ask Dwalin--” Thorin begins, but Bilbo interrupts him with a feigned lightness that reminds of days long gone.  
“Oh, don't you worry”, he says, “It's no trouble. I've already talked to Gandalf – he's off into the same direction anyhow, so he'll take me.” 

Thorin's face is unreadable – as it is so often these days. He is moody like the weather in Astron, perhaps more so than ever, one moment jovial, the next furious. It appears to be his nature after all. “Very well then”, he finally agrees. And so it is settled.

The good-bye is sober and quiet. Bilbo has intended to steal away more or less unnoticed, with the two chests of coins Thorin has insisted he'd take, just in case, on the pony he gave him. But the company catches him just in time. They line up like they might have, on another plane, in another reality, all ten of them, paying their respects. Perhaps they suspect he is not coming back, perhaps they just want to show how they care for him. He is touched. But somehow he is more relieved than actually sad. Ever since he made his decision, he's been looking forward to going home, to books, armchair and hearth, to the safety of home and the uneventfulness of a good life. He will plant his tree, just like he planned to, and he will remember, fondly, more fondly perhaps that is strictly right, but that's what memory does – paint everything in much brighter colours.  
And if he should reconsider, he could always come back, couldn't he?  
At least that is what he tells himself.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I honestly hope that I've finally satisfied this darn plot bunny and it won't return to bother me again. I don't categorically rule out the possibility of coming back to this pairing, but it's very unlikely that I'll write another chapter for this story. (Yeah, I know, never say never, that's exactly what I thought two years ago, but well, now it has a kind of ending at least.)
> 
> If you want to tell me something, don't hesitate. As already mentioned somewhere, I dance the cute happy-bear-dance of joy whenever someone leaves me a comment. :)


End file.
